


If Things Were Different

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 326,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10129439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: What if Robert had squandered Cora's fortune before the Titanic sank? What if Matthew had inherited the money needed to save Downton before he became the heir? What if Tom had made something of himself before he met Sybil? An alternate Downton universe set in season one that explores how Sybil and Tom's relationship would have developed if they'd met under different circumstances.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a period-accurate Downton fic that went back to season one, but I didn't want to do a "missing moments" fic. What I decided to do was to keep bits and pieces of the canon plot but change the chronology of Robert's bad investment and the Swire inheritance and change Tom's background. In this version of events, he is the child of Reginald and Isobel Crawley's Irish housekeeper and grows up alongside Matthew, but he never worked in service himself. He will still be an Irish republican, a socialist, and a supporter of women's rights, but thanks to help from Matthew' parents, which will be explained in the story, he has a middle class job and is financially independent and comfortable.
> 
> I will try to remain true to the characters as we know them, but when tweaks are necessary to accommodate the plot changes I've made I'll try to make them as believable as possible. Lastly, regarding Sybil's age, I'm making her 15 at the start of this story, so she'll be 18 for her first season in 1914.

 

**July, 1911**

Sybil Crawley knew her father to be a sentimental man. So it was with great curiosity that Sybil watched him on this day. For this was the day the Crawley family was leaving its ancestral seat, leaving the only place Sybil had called home, leaving a life of exceeding excess and opulence, leaving Downton Abbey.

_Perhaps_ , she thought, _shame overrules sentimentality. Papa cries when he's sad and surely he is sad today, but more than sad he is ashamed._

Sybil knew Robert Crawley saw Downton as his duty, his life's work. And yet there were no tears in his eyes this morning, no emotion in his expression. Nothing.

But, indeed, if Sybil could have looked into her father's heart now, she would have witnessed his deep, deep shame. He had let down his family, his forbears, his employees, everyone. Those were the words that kept running over in his mind, the same words he had used back in April, when he and his wife, Cora, had informed their daughters that Downton Place, a smaller house further north in Yorkshire, was to be their new home. Robert, Cora, Mary and Edith would go to London for the season, as usual—Sybil, not yet out, would stay behind with her governess for one more summer to enjoy the abbey's glorious library on her own—but upon her family's return to the country, they would all have to say goodbye to the grand house and to the majority of the staff, Sybil's governess included, who would not be moving on with them.

The move was the result of a series of bad investments that had shriveled Cora's fortune. (Sybil knew enough about her family's history to know that though her father had brought his aristocratic blood and title to the match, Cora had brought her American money.) The large parcel of land that made up the estate had to be broken up for sale. The house itself and its immediate surroundings would not be sold—Robert's pride could not take so great a hit—but would be left vacant or rented if a suitable tenant could be found. The price of its upkeep and staff was now too much for the family to bare if it expected to maintain a London house and its position in society. Everyone would talk about it, of course, but Robert had hardly been the first lord to mismanage and then lose his estate.

_How could he be expected to run it efficiently, be in charge of it_ , Sybil had always wondered, _when his upbringing requires everything else to be done_ for _him._ It was a contradiction that made Sybil uncomfortable with the position and comfort that she understood was hers only by accident of birth.

She thought of this again as she watched her father standing, stoic, outside the abbey's doors just as the family was set to depart for Downton Place. Then she thought of the day she'd first seen him cry.

She was 8 years old, and one of Robert's beloved dogs had died. Sybil herself had been fond of the creature and didn't know life without it. So when her mother had told Sybil that the dog's old age had finally caught up to it, Sybil felt the sting of tears in the back of her eyes. On the verge of crying, she sought out her father, his comfort, only to find him as emotional as she was. More emotional, in fact.

It was jarring to realize at such a young age that the pillar you expect to lean on is suddenly not as sturdy as you had imagined or hoped. She supposed now, nearly 16, that that might have been the moment she realized her parents would not always have the answers she was looking for. She supposed too that holding back her tears and not throwing a tantrum, as other children might have, and instead offering her father the comfort she had sought from him was the first time she did something other than what might have been expected of her. It was, in effect, her first rebellion.

Robert was not crying now. Nevertheless, Sybil stepped out of the motor, where she'd been sitting and waiting along with her sisters, walked to her father and took his hand. Then, she said what she'd said to him when she was 8 years old.

"We will be all right."


	2. Small Library, Big Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the show, Robert says they can live at Downton Place with eight servants. I've made that ten here: Mr. Carson as butler, Mrs. Hughes as housekeeper, Bates as Robert's valet (I'm skipping the way he is introduced in the show), O'Brien as Cora's lady's maid, Anna and Gwen as housemaids, Thomas as footman, Mrs. Patmore as cook, Daisy as kitchen maid and Mr. Pratt as chauffeur. I have no idea whether those would be the positions needed on a staff this small, but those were the characters I wanted to keep.
> 
> Also, I introduce the "Gwen wants to be a secretary and Sybil helps" storyline earlier than the timeline of the show. On the show, when it starts she's already done the course and is looking for a job, which is when Sybil gets involved. Here, we see the beginning of the aspiration, and how Sybil encourages her from the start. In this universe, I intend for these two to be lifelong friends, so this is how it begins.
> 
> Lastly, this story is very long, and it takes seeral chapters for Tom to come on the scene.

 

**March 1912**

"Where were you all day yesterday?"

It was the rare morning that Cora had come down for breakfast. Robert, Mary and Edith had already eaten and gone. Sybil had been a bit late, having stayed up reading the night before. Cora, used to taking breakfast in bed, had also come down late, and now was taking advantage of their being alone for the purpose of keeping tabs on her youngest daughter. She'd been doing that more and more lately, Sybil couldn't help but notice.

"In the library," Sybil answered.

"No you weren't," Cora replied. "I looked there, and I called out for you."

Sybil didn't really want to give up her special spot, but there was no real point in concealing her whereabouts. She doubted anyone else would use it, and if it was hiding from Cora that she was after, there were other, better ways to do that.

"There's a small alcove in the far corner that's hard to see from the door. It's perfect for reading because it's so quiet." The alcove was one of Sybil's favorite features of Downton Place. The library was smaller, the collection less extensive than the one she had grown up with, but the alcove was a sanctuary unlike any she had found in her previous home.

"So you didn't see me, but you ignored me when I called?"

"Of course, not mama! It's quiet because it keeps all the noises out. I couldn't hear you."

"Well, you missed our trip to Ripon. I wanted to get you new ribbons for your hair for dinner tonight, but I didn't know what colors you would want."

Sybil smiled at this. Even at her age, now 16, her mother rarely let her choose her own clothes or colors. Rare was the trip to the dressmaker during which Sybil was allowed any input at all.

"I'm certainly sad to have missed an opportunity to make my own choice."

Cora smiled back, accepting Sybil's needling as a mother would. "You can choose one you like from the ones I bought for you."

"See, so I wasn't needed after all."

"But I don't want you to miss the next trip, and I want to make sure you give Anna enough time to help you get ready tonight."

"Mama, you know I don't need Anna's help. I've been dressing myself for months."

"I really wish you wouldn't do that Sybil."

"Why not? I'm perfectly capable of tying a few knots."

"It is below your station, my dear. I realize that as you grow up, you may have missed out on some of the luxuries that Mary and Edith enjoyed at the big house, but that's no reason to pretend we are less than we are."

"I don't feel it is beneath me to dress myself. I rather like it, in fact. It gives me purpose at the start of the day—even if my life has no purpose at all. At least not yet." This last, even Sybil could admit, came out a bit petulant, but she couldn't help it.

The life of sitting in parlors and chatting about idle things, waiting for the day she would be presented to society and then married was a bit boring to Sybil. She was curious as to what life would be once she was out in society—if for no other reason than it would perhaps be different from the life she led now. When she still had her governess, at least she had someone to talk to regularly who would listen without judgment, taught her about the world and literature and gave her the means to escape, in her own imagination, her current confines. But as good as her governess had been, Sybil still wished she'd been given the chance to go to school, to learn things that would be useful if she ever dared venture out into the world without the safety net of her family and position. That idea had been on her mind recently, as she had been re-reading Jane Eyre and wondering whether she'd have the capacity to survive on her own the way Jane did.

"My darling, you are still so young. You'll find something that captures your interest and that you love, eventually, but you mustn't forget who you are. Please be ready for Anna this evening. It's very important that we all look our best for James and Patrick. They are planning on traveling to America in a few weeks, and it may be months before we see them again."

"Well, we shouldn't ask so much of Anna. She has plenty to do as it is—Lord knows, she has her hands full with Mary and Edith. I can ask Gwen to help. She's done so before."

"Gwen doesn't have as much practice doing the work of a lady's maid. She's a housemaid and should focus on doing that job well."

"Anna is a housemaid, too."

"Yes, but she's been taking care of you girls for a long time now."

"Perhaps it's Gwen's ambition to be a lady's maid. She can't desire to be a housemaid forever, and how is she to gain experience if she's not allowed to practice?"

Cora took a deep breath and let out a quiet laugh at her youngest daughter's headstrong nature. "Oh, all right, but please let me see you before you go down."

Sybil smiled, rather meekly, as if to offer thanks for being given her way. "Thank you, mama."

They continued eating in a companionable silence. As she was leaving, Sybil told her mother that she'd be taking advantage of the early spring warmth and go for a walk before luncheon.

Cora smiled warmly. "Thank you for letting me know."

As she watched Sybil go Cora realized just how much her youngest daughter had grown up in the last year. At age sixteen, she was already a beautiful young woman. The move to Downton Place—where there were fewer servants around to keep tabs on her and where they held fewer dinners and parties for guests—had given Sybil a greater measure of freedom than she had enjoyed before. That freedom stoked an independent streak in her that would have made Cora proud if it wasn't always giving her fits. It pained Cora to think that Sybil would come to her season, just two years away, and be seen as diminished in comparison with the grandeur that her sisters had come out in. But deep down, she was also grateful it was Sybil who would be faced with this. Her character—kind, forgiving and never inclined to ostentation—would make the very best of it. Grace was not a quality one would expect in one so stubborn as Sybil could be, but Cora knew her daughter had it in spades.

* * *

"Gwen, what do you wish to do in life?" Sybil asked as the young housemaid, not so many years older than Sybil herself, was working to fasten Sybil's corset as she dressed for dinner.

"I beg your pardon, milady?"

"You're young and you have a job already, but I was wondering if there was something greater that you aspired to?"

Gwen was taken a bit by surprise. Lady Sybil had always been kind to her, to be sure, and always spoke with candor and sincerity, soliciting Gwen's opinions even about things that, given her status as a housemaid, Gwen had very little experience with. Sybil treated Gwen, essentially, as a friend. But despite how close in age they were, Gwen's position gave her a knowledge of the harshness of the world that Sybil did not yet know fully, and it was Gwen who often had to remind Sybil of the line that separated them.

All that aside, Gwen liked having a friend in Lady Sybil and answered her question as honestly as she could. "Well, milady, without meaning to sound ungrateful for this position or for having work at all—"

"Gwen, you certainly don't have to worry about me thinking you impertinent for wanting to do better than having to dress me," Sybil said with a smile.

Gwen smiled widely. "I'm sorry, milady."

"And don't apologize! Just speak freely. While it's just us here, please consider me a friend, one who will not betray your confidences."

"All right." Gwen stopped for a moment her fidgeting with the strings on the corset to contemplate what she would say. "I've often thought of trying for a job outside of service, like secretarial work."

"Really? That sounds rather exciting!"

"It is but, I'm afraid I don't have the skill for it. There are correspondence courses I can take, but I need a typewriter."

"Are they expensive?"

"I could buy a used model, and I have been saving my wages, but there is the question of how to get it in the house undetected. They are large, you see, and neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes would ever allow staff such a thing, even if we promised only to use it on our own time. They'd accuse us of neglecting our other work."

"You're probably right about that." Sybil sat down the on the edge of her bed, trying to think of a way to help. "I know! Order the typewriter, and when it arrives at the post office let me know. I will write to my Aunt Rosamund and ask her to send me a few books from her library. When they arrive, I'll have both parcels delivered to me. If papa asks I'll just say both boxes are full of books—he won't question it, I'm sure. And Aunt Rosamund won't be bothered with confirming whether she sent two parcels or one were because she'll likely have ordered her lady's maid to perform the task anyway. Then, once the typewriter is in the house, we'll find a way to sneak it into your room."

"Would you really go to all that trouble, milady?"

"Of course! Only if you promise that we'll remain friends when you leave us to work as a secretary."

Gwen blushed. "Of course, milady."

The prospect of helping Gwen excited Sybil. The two resumed getting Sybil dressed—and quickly because they had lost some time in their conversation—and chatted about what kind of job Gwen might have someday.

Gwen, in the back of her mind, knew it wasn't prudent to allow herself to dream like this, but she couldn't help it. Sybil's excitement was infectious.

Sybil was too embarrassed to admit that a small part of her was encouraging Gwen for purely selfish reasons. She wanted to see what it was like to train for a job and feel the excitement of possibility. She wanted, in essence, to live vicariously through Gwen. Sybil knew, of course, that it made little sense for an earl's daughter to think this way. Her life, or so her family and others would say, was "better" than Gwen's so why would she covet the experience that Gwen was about to go through in training to be a secretary? Sybil herself did not know the answer to that question. She knew what she felt but could not explain it.

The only thing she could explain—and it was true—was that Gwen was her true friend, and if she could help her in someway she would.

Once she was dressed and her hair was done, Sybil looked in the mirror. "I think it'll do nicely, but who knows what mama will say. I suppose I best get her inspection over with. Thank you for your help, Gwen."

"I don't do as well with this as Anna."

"It's all right." Sybil grabbed Gwen's hands. "Don't forget about the typewriter. I really do want to help."

"I won't."

Sybil moved to leave, then turned back to Gwen. "You know, I thought you might have wanted to be a lady's maid, so I apologize for thinking your dreams were smaller in scope than they truly are."

"No need to apologize, milady," Gwen said. "Your assumption regarding someone of my station is not wrong. I'm the one who may be wrong for believing that being a secretary is possible."

"Please don't think that. I'm glad that you have big dreams, Gwen. I hope someday I can have them, too. I just need to figure out what I want first."


	3. Everyone Loves Patrick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up right where we left off in the last one and features Patrick and his engagement to Mary. Canon-wise, we know he was engaged to Mary but might have actually loved Edith—something that has always puzzled me. Even at that time, as the heir, I believe he would have had a choice, which makes me think that he was either toying with Edith or with both Edith and Mary, creating at least some of the animosity between them. So given that, and for the purposes of where this story is going, I've written him as a bit calculating and though well liked by his family not an especially nice person.
> 
> Also with regards to Patrick, Sybil would have been witness to how he treated her sisters in the "courting" context just as she was starting to come of age, and I believe it would have affected how she saw relationships.
> 
> Lastly, as you may begin to see in this chapter, the loss of Downton has affected the relationship between Robert and Mary.

With her mother's approval, Sybil joined her sisters in Mary's room, where Anna was putting the finishing touches on Mary's hair. She sat down on Mary's bed and began to read the book she had carried in with her as she waited for them, taking an occasional look up to watch their interaction.

Both Mary and Edith seemed to be in a good mood, which was to say that they were not bickering—a rare thing. Sybil attributed that to Anna's calming presence and to their guests that evening. James and Patrick were always a welcome addition to family dinners, enlivening conversations and spirits, especially since the move to Downton Place, where fewer guests came to visit. Robert particularly enjoyed their presence, being otherwise the only gentleman in the house.

James, Robert's first cousin, was technically the next in line to the Grantham title by virtue of the fact that Robert had no sons. But given that James was only a handful of years younger than Robert, everyone considered James' son, Patrick, the true heir. And everyone loved Patrick. _Everyone_ , Sybil thought with a roll of her eyes.

Patrick was handsome, well educated and charming, but charming in a way that Sybil—the only Crawley sister not burdened by interest in him beyond a familial fondness—sometimes found a bit ridiculous. He was always kind to her, to be sure, and Sybil loved him as she loved all her family. But she acknowledged to herself that he treated her differently, by virtue of her younger age, from how he treated Mary and Edith, between whom something of a silent war had developed regarding his affections, a war that Sybil believed Patrick was all too eager to stoke.

For Mary, Patrick was a means to have everything that should have been rightfully hers, even in its diminished state, as the eldest Crawley child. Everything that wasn't hers because she was a woman. It was likely that her heart could have truly loved Patrick, if her mind could stop resenting him for his superior position in the family. For Edith, Patrick was simply the man she loved. The two sisters might have been kinder to one another if their interests—pragmatic for the first, romantic for the second—did not intersect in Patrick, but such was the situation. Sybil believed that to keep the peace, an announcement of his preference was all that was needed, but Patrick seemed neither eager to express which of her sisters had his heart, nor interested in turning his attention to another, an heiress perhaps, with whose money Downton Abbey could be saved from its current shuttered state.

He seemed destined to choose between Mary and Edith and yet unwilling to hasten his choice to spare the feelings of the one who would be turned away. Sybil's forgiving heart did not blame him for the situation that was made such by laws that promoted the interests of men above those of women, but she still wished he would do right by his sisters and simply choose, and not allow the acrimony between them to continue to fester.

Finishing the chapter that she was reading, Sybil closed her book and looked to the rest of the room.  "Mama said this morning that James and Patrick are going to America," she said. "I wonder what they will be doing."

"They will be looking for business ventures to invest in," Mary said, turning in front of the mirror to see her hair from all angles.

"Investing? What in heavens for? You'd think they might have learned their lesson after papa." Edith said.

"Patrick wants to make a play to reopen Downton Abbey when he's earl, but he needs the money to run it," Mary answered.

"How do you know that?" Edith asked, somewhat miffed at finding herself out of the loop.

"Because we've discussed it, "Mary responded airily. "And he's right. Downton Abbey is our family's historic seat, not Downton Place. That's where the earl and countess belong. It should be preserved. Just because papa wasn't up to the task doesn't mean that Patrick can't step up."

Sybil frowned, "That's rather unkind to say about papa."

"Well, it's true. He mismanaged the estate, and now here we are. Patrick is right to fight for it."

"I still can't believe it's been less than a year since we left," Edith said. "Seems like a lifetime ago."

"I feel the same way," Sybil added, "Though I don't miss it as much as I thought I might. I love the grounds here, and the library, of course. I hardly remember anything to miss, to be honest."

"I remember," Mary said, quietly, almost to herself. Sybil watched her as she stared contemplatively into her mirror until they caught each other's eyes in it and smiled.

"And you, Anna," Sybil said turning to the housemaid, "do you miss it?"

"It was a lovely place, but I miss the staff that could not join us here more than anything."

"Were they all able to find new positions?"

"I believe so by now, Lady Sybil, although I have heard that it was difficult for some of the younger ones. His lordship wrote letters on their behalf, which helped, as it's not something that's usually done."

"I didn't know papa did that," Edith said.

"Nor I," Sybil added. "I'm glad."

"It was very kind of him," Anna said with a warm smile. Finishing up with, she added, "Is that all right, milady?"

"A wonderful effort as always, thank you, Anna," Mary said. She stood from her vanity and turned to her sisters. "We should go down."

* * *

The rest of the family, including Robert's mother, Violet Crawley, and their guests were already in the drawing room when the girls arrived. Everyone greeted one another cheerfully. Before any of the girls had sat down, Sybil noticed that Patrick pulled Mary aside to talk privately, in the corner of the room opposite the door. They'd been talking for a few minutes—with a measure of intimacy visible between them that Sybil did not remember ever seeing before—when Robert and James joined them. Shortly thereafter both James and Robert shook Patrick's hand as if to congratulate him about something.

Sybil turned to Edith to ask her if she knew what was being discussed, only to see that Edith was red faced and breathing heavily as if trying to keep her composure.

"Edith, is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly, but Carson, the butler, came in just at that moment to announce that dinner was served, giving Edith an out to stand and leave without so much as looking at Sybil.

As the family proceeded to the dining room, Sybil saw her mother stop Patrick and kiss him on the cheek. Sybil suddenly felt as if something was about to happen and everyone had been given fair warning about it except for her. It was not an uncommon feeling. In fact, Sybil was rather used to being the last to know. But this time, Sybil sensed, from Edith's distress, that this was something that was going to be bigger than usual, something that would change their lives as dramatically as the move had done.

Sure enough, once everyone else was seated, Robert remained standing to speak.

"Well, tonight is not just a family dinner but a celebration."

"Of what, papa?" Sybil couldn't help but interject.

"I'm getting to that," he retorted with a smile. "Tonight we mark the engagement of Patrick and Mary, future earl and countess of Grantham."

Everyone raised their glasses. Sybil did so keeping her eyes on Edith, who had calmed in the last few minutes. The look on her face was no longer alarm, only resignation. Sybil felt a pang for her sister, for it seemed that Edith was accepting the turn of events as the outcome she had expected all along. Sybil knew that Edith had an inferiority complex when it came to Mary, but it wasn't until this moment that Sybil realized how deeply interwoven into her character it was.

Looking at Mary, Sybil did not see the elation one might expect from a future bride. Mary was always collected and composed, so any outward display of emotion was rare for her regardless of the circumstances. Nevertheless, Sybil still wondered why Mary did not allow herself some sort of reaction. There was none that Sybil could discern. Like Edith, it seemed, Mary had already prepared for this event as the only possible result. And Sybil realized immediately and sadly that whatever peace she had expected to emerge between her sisters from a resolution to the question of Patrick's preference was not to be. The damage was done, perhaps irreparably.

* * *

Some time later, after the family had eaten dinner and the women had moved on to the drawing room, Sybil stepped out to retrieve her book from Mary's room where she had left it. On her way back, standing at the top of the main staircase, Sybil overheard an anxious voice in the alcove below her.

It was Edith.

Sybil moved against the wall, where she would not be seen, knowing immediately who it was she was talking to. She remained there as still and silent as possible, knowing she shouldn't listen, but unable to tear herself away.

"But you know you won't be happy with her!"

"This isn't about being happy, Edith. I need to do my duty and bring the family back to Downton. Mary understands that, and she will fight for it alongside me."

"Do you think I wouldn't have?"

"You don't understand. You're not the eldest. Downton doesn't mean to you what it does to me and Mary."

"How can you say that?"

"I know the kind of life you deserve, and I wouldn't have been able to give you that, not when I am making this my mission."

"You're being ridiculous. Both of you are. More you for believing her capable of caring about anything more than she cares about herself. She'll throw you aside at the first opportunity."

"Edith, darling, I'm sorry, but this is what must be done. Cousin Robert has agreed to it. I wish I were not causing you pain, but I cannot stop things now."

Sybil heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the sound of Edith crying, followed by, after Edith seemed to have composed herself, her footsteps in the other direction.

When Sybil returned to the drawing room, Edith was still not back, but there Patrick was standing with Robert at the hearth, laughing at something Robert had said as if the scene Sybil had just inadvertently been privy to had never happened.

* * *

Later that evening, Sybil rang for Gwen to help her undress and couldn't help but seek her opinion on everything that was roiling her thoughts that night.

"Gwen, do you plan on getting married?"

Gwen stopped untying the lacing in the back of Sybil's dress to think about her answer. "Honestly, milady, I have not given it much thought."

Sybil sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't either. I'll be expected to marry, but I'm not sure that's what I want, especially after seeing how it has played out for my sisters."

"Are you not happy for Lady Mary and Mr. Patrick?"

"No, I am. Well, I would be if I knew they were going to be happy, at least as mama and papa are now even though they did not marry for love—at least not at first. Anyway, it just makes me wonder whether all the fuss is worth it."

Realizing the intimate secrets she just revealed and concerned for having betrayed her sisters' confidence, Sybil turned quickly to Gwen. But before she could say anything, Gwen answered her worries with a smile. "Don't worry, milady, anything you say I will keep in confidence. I promise."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you. I know I shouldn't be talking about my sisters in this way, but I'm worried about them given everything that's happened between them because of Patrick. He has affected their relationship to such a degree, it's a bit alarming. Things were never entirely serene between them, but their relationship should not be less important, less civil just because of a potential marriage, should it?"

"As an only child, I don't have any wisdom to impart in this area," Gwen said with a rueful smile.

"I'm just being sentimental and silly," Sybil said, finally stepping out of her frock.

As she watched Gwen move to hang it up, she asked again, "Still, aside from all that, do you think that you want to get married someday?"

"I suppose I might like to, but people in service generally don't."

"What about Mrs. Hughes or Mrs. Patmore?"

"The 'Mrs.' is just part of their title—most housekeepers and cooks adopt it. It doesn't mean they are married."

"Oh, I never knew that. But you're going to be a secretary. What then of marriage?"

"It may be different, but to be honest, I have not allowed myself to think too far ahead about that beyond my course."

"Do you _want_ to be married?"

Gwen laughed. "If the question is, do I want to meet a nice man someday, then I think the answer is yes, but marriage is often a separate question from love, even for someone like me who doesn't have to worry about the money involved."

"It would be wonderful if it could always be about love, but it seems the more you have or the more you want, the less likely that is to be true. I don't know where that leaves me. I wonder if it will always be this way."

"I don't know. A change in that regard is something to hope for, I suppose."

"Well, until love conquers all, I don't think I'll ever get married."

"Not to sound impertinent, milady, but I've no doubt you'll have plenty of offers."

Sybil laughed. "No, I don't mean that nobody will want to marry me, but rather until I can be sure I can choose for myself, I won't _want_ to get married."

Gwen smirked. "Odds are, now that you've said as much, the good Lord will put someone in your path who will change your mind."

* * *

A few doors down from Sybil's, Mary was alone in her room getting ready for bed when she heard a knock on the door. It was Cora.

Mary arched an eyebrow. "Aren't I a little old for you to be checking in on me at this hour?"

"You'll never be too old. Besides, this is a special night."

"Don't be silly, mama," Mary responded, but smiled nonetheless.

The two sat down next to one another on Mary's bed, and Cora took one of Mary's hands into hers.

"Of course, it's special. You're getting married."

"I was always getting married."

"But we didn't know the who until tonight." Cora looked at Mary for a long moment. "Are you going to be happy, my dear?"

"Oh, mama, what a question!"

"I know how you and Patrick feel about Downton Abbey, and if what both of you want is to find a way back, then I hope for the best, but I also want you to be happy."

"Were you happy when you married papa, knowing he didn't love you?"

"I was happy because I believed he would come around," Cora said with a serene smile. "I was naïve perhaps, but things ended up in my favor."

"Well, I do not consider myself naïve, but I do believe things will end up in our favor, and being back at Downton would make me happy." Mary sighed, then went on, "If you're concerned that I don't care for Patrick then, don't be. I do, very much. And I know he loves me. This is what we both want."

Mary stood up and walked over to her vanity. "And if I have a change of mind, he can marry Edith."

"Mary, you shouldn't toy with Patrick like that or your sister."

Mary turned back to Cora with a sharp look on her face. "Those were his words, not mine." She looked back toward her mirror. "But I appreciated them, and if I don't marry him, I would expect any man who asks for my hand to offer me the same courtesy. My mind is the only thing that belongs to me, and I intend to remain the master of it."

Cora stood and walked over to Mary. "I'm sorry, darling, that was unfair of me."

Mary smiled. "It's all right, mama. Thank you for coming in."

Cora moved to leave, but then turned back at the door. "Do you want to say goodnight to your father? He's very happy about it all. You must know that."

"Just tell him I'll see him in the morning."

* * *

**April 1912**

Robert didn't need to read the telegram twice. He knew it was true. Murray would never have sent it unless he was sure. He stood from breakfast abruptly, leaving three bewildered daughters behind.

_Distressing news regarding James and Patrick Crawley._

_STOP_

_They were aboard RMS Titanic._

_STOP_

_I have confirmed their names on passenger list._

_STOP_

_No evidence of survival._

_STOP_


	4. The Letter

 

**May 1912**

Matthew Crawley was in a daze.

When he woke up this morning, he was a middle class solicitor, the son of the late Dr. Reginald Crawley and his wife, Isobel, homemaker and part-time nurse. He'd gotten out of bed, washed up and changed, gone down to breakfast with his mother and opened his mail.

Now, he was the future Earl of Grantham—an aristocrat, by title and association if not by pure blood—and heir to a modest fortune, a London house and a series of properties in the north of England.

He wondered whether someone was playing a trick on him. Maybe fate was. Fate had certainly had her way with him in adulthood. After an uneventful childhood, followed by a deeply uninteresting adolescence, since finishing his studies, Matthew's life had taken more life up-ending turns than a Dickens novel. Except that unlike Dickens he hadn't been poor to start and each turn had made him an even wealthier man. He already possessed more inherited riches than he knew what to do with, and now here was his third cousin once removed, Robert Crawley, a man he had met only once as a child, writing to inform him that his money, his land, _everything_ , would be Matthew's, by law. Surprise!

As he made his way through the streets of Manchester from the house he had grown up in to the small law practice he shared with his best friend in the business district, Matthew couldn't help but laugh at himself and his inclination to rue good fortune. But he couldn't help but think, _why me_? The world was full of good, but unfortunate souls who lived in squalor. _Why not them?_ What angel in heaven—or was it hell?—had deemed him worthy of a second fortune he had not earned and, in Matthew's own mind, did not deserve?

Were these gifts from the universe supposed to give him direction? Because at the moment, he had none.

When he finally made it to the red brick walk-up, Matthew felt as if he'd been walking around in circles for hours. It was going to be a long day.

Matthew walked through the entryway into the three room office and was greeted by the sight of his best friend and partner Tom Branson sitting in the reception area at their secretary's desk reading a newspaper with his feet up.

"Hard at work as usual, Tom," Matthew said with a smirk as he walked through to his office in the back. He hung up his hat on the back of the door and set down his briefcase on his desk before heading back out to the reception area.

Tom looked up from his paper, "Did you say something?"

"What are you doing out here? Where's Mrs. Landry?"

"Mrs. Landry is home tending to her sick husband. And Finch has taken over my office in order to assemble the latest in office technology, guaranteed to increase my productivity by fifteen percent—so said the salesman anyway. Productivity or not, it's really quite marvelous."

"What could you possibly be talking about?"

Tom smiled. "You're going to want one of your own."

Isaac Finch, the building's caretaker and Tom and Matthew's go-to handyman, stepped out of Tom's office, to the right of the reception area, wiping his hands on his large handkerchief. "All done, Mr. Branson. Gave it a go myself. I think you'll be pleased."

Tom put his paper down and smiled at Matthew while rubbing his hands together. "Wait until you see it."

The three men walked into the office. Tom practically ran to his desk and sat down. Matthew looked around and tried to find what "invention" Tom might have been referring to, but couldn't see anything different. He'd done a full 360-degree turn but did not discover what his good friend was talking about until he'd come all the way around and his eyes landed back on Tom. Somehow, in a manner Matthew could not determine, Tom was spinning in circles behind his desk.

Tom stopped himself putting his hands on his desk. He was wearing the grin of an 8-year-old with a new model train. "Do you want to try it? It's called a swivel chair."

"I don't see how it's going to do anything except _reduce_ your productivity down to zero."

"Don't be silly!" Tom pulled his chair back up to his desk. "First, I can have a set of papers on the left corner of my desk,"Tom said turning to face that corner. "Then I can turn 45 degrees to work on papers on the middle of my desk." Tom did as he said. "Then I can turn an additional 45 degrees to work on papers on the right side of my desk." Tom turned slightly again, then lifted his hands up is if in victory. "The entire panorama of my desk, now all of it useful and without the bother of having to lift my chair."

"I've oiled the spindle to stop it squeaking, Mr. Branson. And polished the wood up a bit." Turning to Matthew, he added, "I can have the furniture shop reserve you one, if you'd like Mr. Crawley."

Matthew smiled, "I think I'll see how much work he actually gets done sitting in it first, but thank you."

"Fine work as always, Finch," Tom said, leaning back in his fancy new toy.

Mr. Finch picked up his tools and bid the young men good day on his way out of the office to his rooms on the second floor.

Matthew moved to leave. "I'll be in the office where chairs are actually conducive to work."

Tom smiled and started to sort through the piles of papers in front of him. "By the way, I'll have to skip luncheon at the house. The Hollingers will be by later to update their will. It seems Mr. Hollinger has come into a sum of money from his late uncle."

Matthew hesitated at the door, which did not escape Tom's notice.

"Is something wrong?"

Matthew turned his head back, ready to say no and go on to his office, but after moment's silent consideration, he walked back toward Tom's desk and sat down across from him.

"Do you remember how father used to joke that he came from aristocratic stock?"

Tom smiled. "Remember? How could I forget? Or don't _you_ remember how he used to tell me it was his noble blood that compelled him to rescue a poor little chap like me?"

Matthew laughed. It had been some time since he'd thought of his father. "Well, it was more or less true."

"How do you mean?"

"Father's grandfather was the son of the third Earl of Grantham, not the eldest son—second or third, I'm not sure. The seat is in Yorkshire. It's a grand old house. We stopped by to see it when I was young. It was quite beautiful."

Matthew stopped, letting the memory wash over him. He continued slowly, as if the details were coming back to him only one by one. "I was maybe twelve years old. We had luncheon with the current earl's family. There were three girls."

Tom looked at his friend curiously, wondering what he was getting at.

"Three daughters," Matthew repeated, quietly. "No sons."

"Are you all right?" Tom asked.

Matthew shook his head as if to clear his mind. He looked directly at Tom again. "When there is no son, by law, the heir is the next cousin in the male line. Until a month ago that was the earl's first cousin."

"What do you mean until a month ago? And what does this all have to do with anything?"

"A month ago, the cousin perished on the Titanic, along with his only son."

Tom narrowed his eyes, starting to see where Matthew was leading him.

"The next cousin in the male line is now . . . well, _me_."

"Matthew . . . "

"I'm going to be the next earl of Grantham." Matthew took a deep breath and sank into the chair he was sitting in.

"Crikey," Tom said quietly.

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of the revelation sink in.

"When did you find out?" Tom asked.

"This morning." Matthew pulled the letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Tom, who spent a few minutes reading it over.

"Properties? You're getting this man's land?"

"It would seem so."

"And his daughters, they get nothing?"

"I'm sure he'll set aside a dowry for them before he dies, but there are legal complications when it comes to women inheriting titles or property."

Tom rubbed his forehead. "God, the ridiculous laws in this country."

"You've lived here half your life," Matthew said with a smirk.

"I'm born Irish, and I'll die Irish."

"You're lucky the old man wasn't picky and willing to send you back there when he offered to pay for your studies."

"I'll have you know Trinity College, Dublin is one of the oldest and finest universities in his majesty's kingdom. Why else would Uncle Reg have approved me going there?"

"Are we back to calling the king 'his majesty'?"

"Just making my point," Tom said playfully. "So what of this? Am I to call you 'your lordship' from here forward?"

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, I hadn't thought of the actual title."

"Maybe you don't have to accept."

"Perhaps. I don't know."

Tom handed him back the letter. "Do you want company, for the trip to London to meet the earl?"

"Maybe. Mother will be coming as well. I'm sure she'd like you along."

Matthew stood to leave. "Will you be coming for dinner?"

"Yes. Mam says there's a broken bookcase in the kitchen that needs mending," Tom said, then he added in a high-pitched woman's voice. "A housekeeper's work is never done!"

"You ought to give her a break. She runs the house quite efficiently."

"I give her lots of breaks. She's the one who doesn't like to give them to me."

"Can't you send Finch to fix it?"

"I could, but the old girl's afraid her son doesn't know how to work with his hands. Half the things she asks me to fix, I genuinely believe she broke herself just to test me."

Matthew laughed, then turned to leave. "I'll let you know about London when it's all planned."

Matthew had reached the door back into the reception, when Tom called out to him, "You know maybe there is a silver lining to all this."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Well, aside from inheriting yet another fortune, you did mention there were three daughters. Maybe one of them will fall in love with you."

"Leaving the remaining pair for you?"

"Me? HA! As if a _true_ socialist would ever fall in love with an earl's daughter."

Matthew laughed and made his way back to his office, yelling back for his friend to hear, "Famous last words."


	5. In Need of Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a companion to the last one, introducing Isobel as she, Matthew and Tom are returning to Manchester after their visit to London to meet Robert, so in terms of the show's timeline it's in between episode one and episode two.
> 
> Regarding Isobel, I read something once on the Isobel/Ethel storyline that questioned why she didn't hire Ethel before Ethel gave her son away. I think at that time having a housekeeper/cook with such a young child living in the servants' quarters with her would have gone completely against the norm. Nevertheless, I'm having young Isobel do just that in this story. I don't think it would have been out of character for her.

 

**June 1912**

Isobel Crawley watched the English countryside pass by out her window as the events of the last day—indeed, the last month—played over and over in her mind. She had always enjoyed train travel. It made her feel she was going somewhere with a purpose, regardless of her destination.

Purpose was of utmost importance to Isobel. And as she considered her son's future while sitting alone in her train car, she wondered whether he believed he had a purpose, whether he needed her help in finding one, whether he was past the point of needing or wanting a mother's help in that regard.

The letter from Robert Crawley with the news that the tragedy of the Titanic had left him with no heir but Matthew had been an utter shock, leveling any ideas Isobel might have had about Matthew living a long, uneventful and comfortably upper middle class life in Manchester, just as she and her husband had done. Though, if she was honest with herself, she could admit that that imagined future had started to unravel even before the earl's letter had come.

First, there had been his announcement that he would marry Lavinia Swire, the sweet, unassuming daughter of her husband's longtime friend. The announcement itself had not unsettled Isobel. It was the timing. An attachment had existed between Matthew and Lavinia for some time, but there had been no talk of marriage until Lavinia's father, on his deathbed, expressed a delirium-induced request to Matthew that he marry his daughter. Matthew, being who he was, found himself honor-bound to do just that. It was a promise that Isobel—and Lavinia herself—had told him he did not have to keep, but there was no talking him out of it.

Until, of course, fate interceded.

When Lavinia fell ill, she asked Tom—knowing Matthew would object—to make sure that everything that her father had left her would go to Matthew. Tom did as she asked and took the abuse from Matthew when he, in his grief after her death, attacked his best friend for having gone behind his back and secured a fortune for Matthew that Matthew did not believe was his. Eventually, Matthew came around, realizing that in a role reversal, he would have done the same, and mended a fence that Tom assured him wouldn't ever need mending.

Tom Branson was, in fact, the one part of her son's life—and, indeed, her own—that Isobel would never doubt. He was, in his own way, like a son to her.

Isobel still remembered clear as day, the day Claire Branson stepped into her life. Isobel was still a young wife and mother, and though she'd been married for close to four years, still getting used to running her own house. She'd never interviewed someone for the position of housekeeper, having taken her mother's recommendation—an older woman who subsequently chose an early retirement—when she and her husband first made a home together after their wedding.

Claire's Irish brogue was so strong back then, Isobel kept having to ask her to repeat herself, which she did with an increasing measure of embarrassment. Sensing that the interview was not going well, Claire told Isobel about her young son, not yet two years old, whom she'd left behind in Ireland with a cousin and whom she needed to provide for.

"He's why I've come to England, mum, and why I desperately need the work. His father, my husband, passed last year and left us very little on which to live."

"Do you plan on bringing him along eventually?"

"Oh, no, mum! I wouldn't dream of that."

"Well, why not? Surely the place for any young boy is with his mother."

"With respect, there are few families out there that would allow a housekeeper to keep a child with them. I couldn't afford to rent a room and not live in the servants' quarters on the premises, and that's what I'd have to do if I brought Tommy along. No, he'll be fine so long as I can get a job and send home some money."

Isobel was nothing if not a progressive-minded woman. Moreover, her own motherhood called on her at that moment to consider what it would be like for her if life forced her to leave Matthew behind. Suddenly, Claire Branson's qualifications didn't matter.

"Mrs. Branson, what if I told you that you could bring your son here?"

"What?"

"I'm new at this—motherhood, life, everything. You seem to be as well. What if we do it together?"

That was all it took. And while Isobel and Claire got used to one another and to running the house together through a long, not entirely painful process of trial and error, Tom and Matthew, only a year apart in age, loved one another immediately.

Claire had misgivings about allowing her son to play in the nursery with Matthew, and expressed them to Isobel, but both she and her husband, Reginald, insisted that Matthew's nanny was perfectly capable of looking after both boys. Isobel confided to Claire that complications arising from Matthew's birth had rendered her unable to bare more children. The presence of little Tommy in the lives of Matthew and Reginald offered a comfort that her own body was no longer capable of giving them. Claire was glad to be able to provide the family with something beyond her faithful service after the chance they had taken on her, but it wasn't until a few years later that she would know the true depth of their generosity.

Tom was four and Matthew was five, and the nanny had started teaching them their numbers and letters in anticipation of Matthew starting school the following year. One evening, she stepped into the parlor, where Reginald and Isobel were reading before dinner.

"Dr. and Mrs. Crawley, may I have a word?"

"Certainly," Isobel said putting down her book.

"As you know, I've been starting to teach the boys a bit to get young Matthew ready for school."

"Is everything going all right with him?" Reginald asked.

"Oh, yes, he's doing quite well for his age."

"Is Tommy having trouble?" Isobel asked, with concern.

"Not at all! Actually, it's quite the opposite." She paused, as if looking for the best way to explain herself. Finally, she said, "I think it would be best if I showed you."

The three walked into the nursery. Matthew was sitting in the middle of the room playing with his toy train. Four-year old Tommy was sitting nearby with a book of Aesop's Fables on his lap reading it aloud. His words were at times unsteady, but they were the words on the page. And he wasn't just reciting them. He was telling Matthew a story.

"I went through the letters and sounds with them," the nanny whispered, "and before I knew it, he'd picked it up, well . . . quite like _magic_. I've never had a child learn reading so naturally."

Realizing that he was being watched, Tommy stopped. Matthew turned to him from his train, and quickly ordered, "Keep going!"

Reginald sat down next to the little boy. "Do you like reading, Tommy?"

He nodded.

"Do you think you would like to go to school next year, like Matthew?"

He nodded again.

"And do you think that someday you'd like to go to university?"

"What's that?"

"Someplace where people go so they can be very clever. Would you like that?"

He smiled and nodded vigorously.

"Well, keep reading for yourself and Matthew now, and I'll help you with that when the time comes, all right?"

"All right."

Reginald stood up and placed a kiss of each of the boy's heads. Then with a smile on his face, he turned to his wife and said, "Let's go tell his mother."

They interrupted Claire as she and her kitchen maid were putting the finishing touches on dinner, and she momentarily wondered whether her son had broken some valuable trinket upstairs. After she'd directed them to the small office she kept next to the kitchen, Reginald declared his intention to see to Tom's education. Such was Claire's joy and gratitude that it took them a full quarter of an hour to get her to stop crying.

Isobel smiled at the memory. Reginald's profound generosity was but one of the many virtues of her husband's that she loved so much. She wondered now what he would think about the young men Matthew and Tom had become, what advice he'd give them at this juncture in their lives. He'd be tickled, no doubt, about Matthew someday being an earl, given how often he liked to jokingly boast about his noble blood. He'd enjoy debating with Tom about his populist politics. He'd be proud of their young but thriving practice. He'd be proud of the father he'd been to them both.

* * *

Further along on the train, in the dining car, Matthew and Tom were catching up on how Tom had spent the day in London while Matthew was discussing his future with Robert Crawley.

"So you didn't make it to the British Museum, after all?" Matthew asked, setting his teacup down.

"That had been my intention, but when I went to deliver the parcel Finch gave me for his sister, her husband mentioned his garage business and asked if I wanted to come have a look. He's been telling Finch about it in his letters so Finch can open his own garage in Manchester as a side business. Anyway, he sees to cars for several well-to-do families in town, and he was working on a 1910 Renault when I arrived. It was beauty. He let me stay and tinker with it alongside him the rest of the day."

"Weren't you bored after a while?"

"Not at all. It was quite fun." Tom paused for a moment. "I don't know if I've ever said this to you but I often wonder what I might have done with my life if your father hadn't paid for my studies. I think being a mechanic or a chauffer would have suited me quite well."

"The most well-read chauffer in town, no doubt," Matthew said with a smile.

"Indeed." Tom took a sip of his tea, then changed the subject to the meeting that had been the purpose of the trip. "So how did it go with Lord Grantham?"

"Well, I think. He's a nice man and said he remembered meeting me when I was a child. Apparently, he and the old man corresponded years back, when the hospital in the village had expanded and they'd considered bringing on another doctor. He offered father the position, but nothing ever came of it."

"Really? Did you know?"

"No, but mother did say that they had discussed it. She said they had often talked about moving to the country eventually, but at the time of the offer, they decided to wait until we were out of university and settled. But then father died and since then she hasn't given it much thought. I think she would enjoy the move now, though I doubt she would say it, lest she feel like she's pressuring me."

"So you are considering it, then?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not earl yet, so my life, in actuality doesn't have to change until Robert dies, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Well, I could get involved in the running of the estate and the big house, seeing as it's in need of financial rescuing and I have the resources to do it."

"How did Lord Grantham know about your money from the Swires?"

"I'm sure he made some inquiries about me before contacting me. It wouldn't be difficult to find out."

"And he doesn't have his own fortune?" Tom asked.

"It's a bit complicated. He made some bad investments and lost a not insignificant sum, it seems, and the running of the house and the farms takes a great deal of resources, according to him. He and his wife opted to downsize and reserve what they had for their daughters' marriages."

"The thinking being that if he can't leave them anything, he might as well see that they're married well?"

"That's about right. It seems silly, I suppose, but it's understandable."

"I wouldn't say there's anything silly in trying to provide for your children," Tom said, "but if you're asking about the absurd expense of the rituals by which the aristocracy pair off their children, that's a separate question entirely."

"No coming out balls for you, then?" Matthew joked.

"God, no. Can you imagine me at such an event?"

"I can, as it happens, and having been to one myself, I dare say you would rather enjoy yourself."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Back to the point. The earl wants you to rescue the estate?"

"He didn't say he expected me too, only that the opportunity is there. He chose not sell Downton Abbey with the hope that a future earl might have the money to reopen it."

"How long has it been shuttered?"

"A year. The family has been living in a smaller house further north, Downton Place, but they don't have as much contact with the village, which has suffered as a result."

"How so?"

"Well, having lost its primary patrons, the hospital is on the verge of closing. That's probably the worst of it. Some of the shops have shuttered and many of the tenants who worked the farms have gone to London for factory work."

Tom thought quietly for a moment. "It's a sad state of affairs, but indicative of what happens when the masses are forced to subsist on the whims of the few—a select few who have no profession, only a pool of wealth and an appetite for the frivolities that deplete it most quickly. Perhaps if the land had been theirs to begin with they would have felt more personally invested in it and sought out the means to work it for themselves."

Matthew sighed. "You're not wrong, but such is the world we live in, and what's happened at Downton. Mother is keen on visiting to see if anything can be done for the hospital."

"Do you really think you could save it?"

"Robert believes it's worth doing. Men like him—and I know you don't approve of their lifestyle, but nevertheless—at least some of his station take the responsibility of providing employment and patronage for the county they preside over seriously. He feels he's fallen down on his duty."

Tom asked the next question carefully, knowing that Matthew was still processing everything and had not yet come up with an answer. "Do you think you could make it _your_ duty?"

"I'm not sure. If I did, I think things would have to change, like taking advantage of modernity to make the estate self-sustaining, and do more to really help those who depend on it, not just get them from one season to the next."

"Sounds like you're closer to the decision than I thought," Tom said with a smile.

"I'm not there yet." He added with a smirk, "Besides, someday you're going to be off running a revolution. I need something interesting to do—even if it puts me at odds with your principles."

Tom laughed. "My principles really all boil down to one thing—whether you are a man or a woman, the circumstances into which you are born shouldn't determine how the rest of your life unfolds. Do you disagree with that?"

Matthew smiled. "No."

"Neither did your father. I am proof of that. Matthew, you were conceived and raised by two of the kindest, most fair-minded people God has made. If you follow your own judgment, then you'll have done right by anyone who depends on Downton thriving. As for my thoughts on the aristocracy, if the likes of you and Aunt Isobel are going to join its ranks, then it can't be all bad."

With that Tom stood and said, "I'll go check on her while you think things over."

"Tom," Matthew called out. "Would you come with us, if we made the move to Yorkshire?"

"Well, I'd have to," he said with a smile. "Mrs. Landry would kill me inside of a week without you to fend her off."

Matthew smiled widely, glad to know that whatever decision he came to, his hodgepodge family would remain in tact.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Cora and Violet were having tea on the grounds of Downton Place, discussing how the past season had gone for Mary and Edith when they saw Robert coming toward them from the house. He seemed agitated, but as he approached, they saw that he was smiling.

"Whatever is the matter, Robert?" Cora asked.

"I've just heard from Matthew. He's agreed to save Downton."


	6. Blue Eyes. Shirtsleeves. Smile. Accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've arrived at the point where series 1, episode 2 starts, and I need to point out a few things before we go on.
> 
> Robert is not in this chapter, but something to keep in mind, in this story he will have been deeply affected by the loss of Downton and what he sees as his failure. It was a HUMBLING experience in every sense of that word. That doesn't mean his snobbery won't come out in some areas, but his pride has been weakened considerably and that will play out in his relationships and the role he plays in this story.
> 
> Also, if you watch the show's second episode, you can see how much Matthew intended to resist becoming a true aristocrat—he was actually kind of petulant about it. In this story, he is going in willingly and with a purpose, but he is still a bit skeptical about his change in status. His dynamic with Mary will be very different.
> 
> As much as I loved to laugh at Moseley on the show, he will be an entirely different person in this story primarily because I need him to be someone who will not judge Isobel and Matthew for treating Tom as a member of the family, and I believe Moseley as we know him (and Carson) absolutely would. On the show, downstairs staff for both families all gossip amongst themselves, but because of the distance between Downton Place and Crawley House, the Crawley House staff will be isolated from that at first.

 

**August 1912**

"It was kind of Lord Grantham to send the motor, even if it didn't arrive on time," Isobel said as she and Matthew stood on the train platform waiting. The journey to Downton from Manchester had been a long one, and she was eager to start on the last leg.

"I had told him it wouldn't be necessary, but he insisted," said Matthew.

"Have you two discussed your plans for the estate yet?" She asked.

"Not in detail, I'm afraid. It's likely he'll have some objections to what I'd like to do."

"I know men like him tend to cling to traditions beyond their usefulness, but remember that he sees all of this as his heritage and he may have experiences that you could learn from. Don't dismiss his methods or manners outright."

"If the point you're making is that their niceties have to be observed, then I'll tell you that in that respect, as surprising as it may be to you, I land on Tom's side of the argument." Matthew paused, then added a firm tone. "I have made an investment here, and I will see to it as I see fit. But I won't let them change me."

"Why would they want to?"

"I've come into a vast sum of money, but I remain a middle class lawyer, son of a middle class doctor."

" _Upper_ middle class," Isobel retorted.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Nevertheless, they want us to come into _their_ world, and so we shall, but even in so doing I have to be myself. I'll be of no use to anyone if I can't be myself."

Isobel sighed. "And yourself you will be. And so shall Tom—don't doubt he will get this same speech from me."

"And what speech is that?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"That these people will have the expectation that we will not know how to behave, an expectation that I intend to confound. If they are to dislike us, I prefer it be over important things, like our opinions or our interests, not merely because they see our position in the social order so obviously written into our behavior. It is most certainly _not_."

Matthew smiled. "You make a good point."

"Matthew, Lord Grantham is pleased that Downton Abbey will be reopened in due course, and that the estate will survive his mismanagement of it thanks to you. You said so yourself. Why must you put up your guard like this? We've arrived at a new life, a new experience—don't close yourself off to the opportunities it presents, regardless of how they may come."

"I won't, and thank you."

After a few more minutes of waiting, Mr. Pratt arrived with the car. "Begging your pardon mum, I've been having some trouble with the motor today. Stopped on me on the way."

"No bother at all. What is your name?" Isobel asked.

"Stewart Pratt, mum. I've been with the Crawleys for many years. It's an honor to meet his lordship's heir."

"Thank you," Matthew said. The deferential treatment was definitely something that would require getting used to. "This is my mother, Mrs. Isobel Crawley."

Isobel smiled at him. "We appreciate this so very much."

"It's no bother at all. I was bringing Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Sybil into the village anyway. They plan on stopping at Crawley House to say hello. I shall meet them there for the journey home."

"That's wonderful," Isobel said, already looking forward to it.

"I'll just see to the luggage then, and we'll be off."

Pratt loaded the bags and they were quickly on their way. The two looked intently out the windows as they made their way through the small village to their new home, Crawley House.

"Has Tom shared any news of your new job?"

"Not much more than to say he doesn't like having to work for someone else after being his own boss," Matthew said.

"Oh, you'll have your practice back up in due time. I do think it was wise to start with an established partnership first."

"He said Mrs. Branson is quite happy with a larger kitchen."

Isobel laughed. "I will not miss her complaints on that score. I am glad he decided to accompany her when she came to get the house ready. She can be quite skittish when it comes to new things."

Just as Isobel finished speaking, Mrs. Branson and her son, along with Ivy, their maid, were visible just outside their new home. Standing with them was a tall, dour looking man in what Isobel guessed was a butler's livery.

As soon as they had stepped out, Tom came forward to greet them, giving Isobel a kiss on the cheek.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" he said.

"Oh, yes," Isobel replied. "Though we are happy to have finally arrived." Turning to Claire, she said, "I'm told the kitchens are to your liking."

"Very much. More space than we need, I dare say, but we've already found use for most of it." Claire then looked at Tom and jerked her head toward the man next to her.

"Right." Tom turned back to the unknown man, who stepped forward to greet them as well. "This is Moseley, our butler and valet."

Matthew couldn't help but smile at Tom's eye roll when he got to the man's title.

"Well, how do you do, Moseley? May I introduce ourselves, I am Mrs. Crawley, and this is my son, Mr. Matthew Crawley."

He gave a slight bow and said, "I'll just give Mr. Pratt a hand with the cases."

"Thank you," Isobel said, then turning to Pratt, asked "Pratt, when did you say the young ladies would be coming by?"

"At about 4 o'clock, mum."

Matthew looked at his pocket watch and said, "That's less than a quarter of an hour."

"Heavens! Mrs. Branson, Ivy, we'll have to wait for the grand tour, but I trust you've done well setting the house up. Ivy, we'll have the earl's daughters here to say hello shortly, so please prepare some tea while I freshen up. You should as well, Matthew."

And with that she scurried into the house to prepare for their visitors. Ivy was about to follow her, when Claire caught her by the arm.

"Silly girl, I've been telling you for a week, here, we've got our own entrance," she said, pulling her toward the service entrance in the back, where Mosely and Pratt were currently taking the luggage. Then she added in a whisper, "Or do you want _him_ to take your head off again?"

"I don't know why we need him. We did fine at the old house on our own."

"We're in a whole new world here, my dear. Best get used to it."

Still standing at the front of the house with Tom, Matthew looked over his new home.

"It's certainly bigger than the old place."

"Indeed," Tom agreed.

"So about Moseley."

"Ugh, don't get me started. He positively doesn't know what to do with me."

"Has he given you trouble, you know, for sleeping upstairs?"

"Oh, no. He's nothing if not perfectly cordial, and once he read the letter from Aunt Isobel explaining the arrangement, he's managed to control his bewilderment whenever he sees me in the kitchens with mam."

"Is he really going to be our _valet_?

"Not _ours_ , yours," Tom said with a laugh. "Or did you honestly expect I was going to let another man dress me? It's bad enough Aunt Isobel forced me to buy a set of tails."

"Well, he's not going to dress me either."

"He seems a bit of a stubborn old bloke. He's bound to beat one of us into submission before long."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "We'll see about that."

"You should get inside. The earl's daughters will be here soon."

"Can we please not start with that again?"

Tom grinned. "You might as well put your best foot forward. One of them is bound to fall in love at first sight."

Matthew moved toward the door but called over his shoulder, "You seem to be forgetting, I'm not the only bachelor who lives in this house."

"You're the only one worth marrying."

As Matthew opened the front door, he saw Pratt coming back from the back of the house.

"Pratt, Mr. Branson here has a bit of knowledge about cars. He might help you with the trouble you were having earlier." Then, turning to Tom, added, "Instead of trying to play matchmaker why don't you make yourself useful."

* * *

As Matthew and his mother were arriving at Crawley House, the three Crawley sisters were making their way there from the dressmaker in the village, where Pratt had left them before going to pick up Matthew and his mother.

Months had passed since James and Patrick perished, but given everything that had happened since, it felt as if it had all gone by very quickly. Sybil remembered clearly the morning the news came, the image of her father's crestfallen face as he read a telegram the girls would not know the contents of until later that day still ingrained in her mind. Then how quickly he ran out of the dining room after reading it. She was, it seemed, doomed to most easily recall her father's lowest moments among her memories of him.

The family took the news hard, not just for the loss of their loved ones, of course, but because their lives were, once again, being upended. Mary and Edith were their usual selves regarding the loss of Patrick. The former putting on a more stoic front than what was beneath, the latter a more emotional one than was necessary. Sybil did not begrudge Edith her grief. On the contrary, she was glad that Edith allowed herself to mourn properly and did not like Mary's insinuations that Edith was making a show of things and was not sincere in her loss. But Sybil also knew that in the interplay that had developed between her sisters, Edith wanted to prove to the rest of her family which of them truly loved Patrick and which was only using him. Sybil did not like this because she did not believe Mary to be as unfeeling as Edith tried to portray her. Being pulled between them was becoming an increasingly difficult proposition. Without Gwen to confide in, Sybil believed she might have gone mad.

But even before the grief had subsided, the news of the new heir became the talk of the family. Cora and Violet entreated Robert to break the entail that tied the title to the estate and to what remained of Cora's money, so Mary would at least be left with something as well as having the option to sell or do with the estate as she would when the time came. But Robert wouldn't act until he knew more about Matthew.

If her father's lack of action on her behalf affected her in any way, Mary hadn't let it show. Edith wondered aloud why her mother and grandmother would bother going such trouble for something that affected only one of the three. Both she and Sybil would be expected to find their position through a favorable marriage, she routinely asked, why was that fate not good enough for Mary? Sybil, as was her usual way, said little. More and more as she got older, she felt the inclination to speak and add her opinions to whatever conversations were taking place, but more often than not she refrained, preferring instead to observe those around her.

And when the season came, she remained peacefully alone at the house. She re-read her favorite books, took long walks and helped Gwen practice her typing now that they'd successfully sneaked the typewriter into her room and Gwen had started her secretarial correspondence course. July brought the family back along with news of Matthew's fortune and the possibility that he could save the big house. The question of what that would mean, and how it would affect the family remained open.

"So when Downton Abbey is all fixed up and cleaned and open again, who is going to live in it?" Sybil asked.

"I don't know," Mary said. "Apparently, they haven't discussed it."

"Surely, they would let us back, wouldn't they?" Edith said. "After all, papa is still the earl."

"Who knows what his intentions are," Mary said.

"Papa or Matthew Crawley?" Sybil asked.

Mary sighed. "Either."

As they approached the house, they saw the back of the family motor, with Mr. Pratt standing beside it and the bonnet up. A pair of legs were sticking out from underneath the front of the car.

"Pratt, is there something wrong?" Mary asked, as Sybil and Edith walked toward the door.

"It was giving me trouble earlier, milady, on the way to the train station, but Mr. Branson here is taking care of it. We'll have it done presently."

Mary nodded and joined her sisters at the door, just as Moseley opened it.

Sybil was about to step through when she realized she was still holding her parcel from the dressmaker. "On second thought," she said to Mary and Edith, "I'll give this to Pratt to put in the motor so I don't leave it here. Go ahead inside, I'll be there in a minute."

"We'll wait," Mary said.

Sybil walked back toward the motor. She had come around to the front of it when the person who had been underneath popped up in one smooth motion.

_Blue eyes._

"Oh!" Apparently, he had not heard her approach and was startled at finding her mere inches in front of him.

_Shirtsleeves._

Sybil was startled too. She dropped her parcel. He bent down to pick it up and handed it back to her.

_Smile._

Pratt was an older gentleman and rather heavy set. Such was Sybil's assumption regarding what a person looked like who understood cars.

"Didn't see you there. Are you all right?"

_Accent._

"Sybil!"

Mary's impatient call brought her back down to earth. Sybil took a step back, then turned to Pratt. "Pratt, would you mind holding this until we're ready to depart?" Her voice, quieter than she intended, sounded somewhat foreign to her.

"Certainly, milady," Pratt responded and took the parcel from her.

With that Sybil quickly went back up the walk to the house. Halfway to the door, unable to stop herself, she took one quick glance back. He was still looking at her. The corners of her lips turned up into a smile. As she faced Mary and Edith again and walked into the house with them, Sybil felt her blood rushing to her chest and head. She wondered how deep the blush on her cheeks was and whether her sisters would notice.


	7. The Secret and The Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where we left off. There's a moment of M/M role reversal early in this chapter.

 

Mary, Edith and Sybil followed Moseley into the parlor.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Crawley arrived from the station only minutes ago," he said. "They are upstairs changing from their traveling clothes and will be down shortly. Shall I have Ivy bring in some tea?"

"Thank you, that won't be necessary," Mary said. "We won't be staying long."

"Very good, milady." With that Moseley bowed slightly and stepped out of the room.

Sybil, as discreetly as she could, brought her hands up to her cheeks to try to stave off the color she knew would give away how quickly her heart was beating.

She was a bit annoyed at herself. She'd seen nice looking men before. Some of the boys she'd grown up with had turned out rather handsome. But none had ever materialized as if out of thin air right in front of her. The effect was disconcerting, especially to Sybil, who had always prided herself on not stooping to the silly fawning some of her friends were guilty of when around members of the opposite sex.

"Who was that with Pratt outside?" Edith asked.

"Their chauffer, I imagine," Mary responded.

"Why would they have a chauffer if they don't have a motor?" Edith retorted.

"He wasn't a chauffer," Sybil said quietly. Mary and Edith both turned to her. "Well, he wasn't wearing livery, anyway. His waistcoat appeared to be from an everyday suit." she added, looking down, hoping her blush had finally dissipated.

She wanted to scold herself. _He wasn't_ that _handsome._

"I hope we don't have car trouble on the way back," Edith said.

"Me too. This will be trying enough."

"Why do you say that?" Sybil asked. "We're only inviting them to dinner."

Mary sighed. "God only knows what Mr. Crawley"—she dragged out the name and rolled her eyes as if it pained her to say it—"intends for Downton or us." Mary hated sounding so petulant, but she couldn't help it. She was about to meet the stranger whose presence would be the final nail in Patrick's coffin and the end of the dream she had shared with him to revive Downton together. Mary had acknowledged not feeling as sad as she should have in the immediate aftermath of Patrick's death, but standing in that room, about to meet the man who would replace Patrick as heir, she felt the first real pang of regret.

Frustrated, she said, "For all we know, he believes the estate entitles him to marry one of us and he plans to make his choice at first glance."

No sooner had those last words come out of Mary's mouth that Moseley had stepped back into the parlor. "Mr. Matthew Crawley."

Sybil and Edith's eyes widened and they looked at one another momentarily before casting a glance at Mary, who was, despite what she'd just said, the picture of composure. Edith's expression quickly turned into a smirk.

Matthew had heard Mary, of course, but chose to ignore her comment. It had been obviously made out of frustration— _She has to be the eldest_ , he thought, _the one who lost her fiancé_ —and knowing what was ahead of him with regard to the changes he had planned for the estate, he didn't want to start off on an argumentative note. Instead, he stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Lady Mary, I presume."

"Cousin Mary," she said, in a soft, even tone that betrayed neither embarrassment nor apology.

Sensing, if not outright seeing, defiance in her posture, Matthew smiled in spite of himself. He turned to the younger sisters.

"And Cousins Edith and Sybil, then?"

Both girls smiled. "It's wonderful to finally meet you," Edith said eagerly. "Papa has told us so much about you. Are you happy with the house?"

"Very much. Please sit down."

All of them did so, and Edith continued. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"

"Yes, it was comfortable and without incident."

"We're sorry to hear there was some car trouble," Edith said.

Sybil looked at her sister curiously. Edith was never one to be so effusive with strangers. Usually, Sybil and Edith would defer to Mary when it came to talking with new people. Sybil wondered whether Edith was trying to take advantage of Mary's faux pas and hoped this did not mean that their antagonism would continue in a new tug-of-war over _this_ cousin.

"It's all right. It caused Pratt to be a few minutes late, but it really was no trouble"

"What—"

Edith stopped short upon seeing Moseley come in with Isobel behind him.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," Isobel said, with a bright smile.

All of them stood again. And this time it was Mary who spoke for the sisters.

"Not at all, Mrs. Crawley," she said.

"Isobel, please."

"We apologize for the intrusion when you've only just arrived," Mary went on, "but mama was wondering if you'd like to join us for dinner tonight, if you're not too tired."

"We'd be delighted!" Isobel said.

"Wonderful. We dine at 8 o'clock. We can send Pratt to pick you up, unless you have your own method of travel."

"If your referring to an automobile, we do not have one," Isobel said. "If you could send him, we'd appreciate it. Do sit down. Would you like some tea?"

Edith and Sybil were about to sit again when Mary responded, "Oh, we couldn't impose when you are getting settled. We'll be on our way."

And with that Mary made her way to the hall, with Edith and Sybil quickly catching up behind her. The three followed Moseley who'd stepped in front of Mary to get to the door. When he opened it, Tom, back in his suit jacket, was on the other side, about to open it himself to come back in.

"Excuse me, Mr. Branson," Moseley said, "The ladies were just leaving."

Tom stepped aside to let them pass, and Isobel came forward from behind them.

"Lady Mary, before you depart, please let me introduce Mr. Tom Branson, an old friend, quite like family. He's staying here with us."

"How do you do?" Mary said primly. "These are my sisters Lady Edith and Lady Sybil."

Tom smiled at Sybil. "I apologize if I startled you before."

Sybil smiled back, bashfully, feeling the warmness coming back to her cheeks. "It's all right. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Mary asked him, breaking a gaze between Tom and Sybil that both thought inappropriately long, even if no one else had noticed it.

Tom looked to Isobel. "Yes, unless a third would be too much trouble," she answered for him.

"We'll see all three of you tonight," Mary said, smiling, then turning to walk down the front path to the car. "Pratt is everything all right now?"

Pratt was already in the driver's seat with the motor running. "Yes, milady."

Tom, Isobel and Matthew followed the sisters down the path, and Tom stepped forward to open the door for them. After Mary and Edith had stepped in, Sybil took another peek at him on her way in, causing him to smile and causing her to slip on the step. He caught her by the hand and waist and helped her the rest of the way in.

"Thank you," she said quietly without daring to look at him again. After she sat down, she held the hand he had just grabbed with the other, as if trying to hold the sensation there. _Yes_ , she thought to herself, _he_ is _that handsome_.

Tom stepped back as the motor pulled away.

"So it begins," Matthew said jokingly. Then he and Isobel started back inside. They were almost to the door, when Isobel turned around to see Tom still standing watching the car drive away.

"Tom, are you coming in?"

His neck whipped over to where she was. "What? Oh, no—I mean, yes." He scratched his head and laughed at himself, then followed Isobel and Matthew inside.

"I'm going up to finish unpacking," Matthew said.

Tom was about to follow him up the stairs when Isobel called him.

"Actually, Tom, if you have a moment, I'd like a word,"

"Certainly, Aunt Isobel." He followed her back into the parlor.

Moseley, who had followed them in, asked, "Shall I have Ivy serve some tea, mum?"

"Yes, please, Moseley, that would be lovely," Isobel answered, then turning to Tom said, "Let's sit down. I'm afraid what I'm about to say won't be to your liking?"

"Don't be silly. I don't think anything you could say to me could be unpleasant."

Isobel smiled. She loved him so very much.

"Did you get a set of tails, as I asked?"

He laughed. "Well, I take it back. That is an unpleasant subject. But yes, I did."

"Good. You'll need them tonight, and do ask Moseley for help if you—"

"I certainly don't need—"

"If you have trouble because I want you and Matthew to both look your best."

Tom sighed. "I don't need help."

"I don't much care about what you think you need," she said sternly, but kindly. "As I told Matthew earlier, I don't intend on giving the Robert Crawley family any reason to judge us. I do not feel beneath them in any way, and I do not want _them_ to feel as if we are. Have I been understood?"

"Yes," he said smiling. "I do not plan being an embarrassment, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, Tom, you could never be that."

At that moment, Ivy came in with the tea and served them both. They took a few minutes to drink in silence.

"Will there be anything else, mum?" Ivy asked.

"No, thank you, Ivy."

"Was that all?" Tom finally asked, when the young maid had left.

"No. There's something else, something that I've discussed with your mother and that she and I agree on."

Now he was curious. "What's that?"

"I know that I introduced you to the girls as a friend, but I'd like to tell the family you are the son of a cousin."

"What?"

"Tom, you are every bit the gentleman you look. In that finery tonight, you could walk into their home, call yourself a duke and none would be the wiser because you're so well spoken, intelligent and thoughtful."

Tom laughed. "I don't think there are any dukes from Ireland."

Isobel persisted. "Please listen. You have a future ahead of you that is beyond the dreams of your father and his father, and you are every bit worthy of whatever comes to you, but there are people in this world who will say that you are not because—"

"Because of my birth," he said with a sigh, looking down at his hands.

"Yes."

Looking back up at her, he said, "But Aunt Isobel, I'm not ashamed of who I am or of mam, or where I come from. If anything, I want people to know so they understand that opportunity when given freely and without judgment can change lives."

"Tom, I know you're not ashamed and neither am I ashamed of you. But I want to impress upon you how quickly some of the people who will cross your path will dismiss you—even people who work in service, as your mother—if they know something that in truth they don't have to know."

Tom sighed. "What about mam?"

"She agrees with me on this. She's been careful to only send Ivy out to the village and will be going by her maiden name. I'll have a talk with Mr. Moseley, but since he's not spoken up about our arrangement since I wrote ahead to him to explain it, I trust he will remain true to our intentions."

"Won't it be worse if I'm caught in a lie?"

"I don't expect anyone to catch you because I don't expect anyone to suspect you. Have you said anything to anyone at your job about your background?"

"No."

"Well, if anyone asks, just say you don't remember anything before you came to us, and you retained your Irish accent because we sent you there every year starting at age fifteen to complete your studies and later to go to university as it was your father's wish. "

Tom smiled. "All of that happens to be true."

"There you have it, then."

"Aunt Isobel, I'm not sure about this. May I think about it first?"

Isobel sighed. "You may. If you prefer, we can simply not say anything. Robert and his family may not even ask questions, and just assume what we want them to."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your concern—"

"I understand. I'm asking you to hide a part of yourself that makes you who you are, and it's not fair of me to do so, but we live in the world such as it is. Your mother and I want to protect you from it."

"And I appreciate that, truly."

They smiled at each other.

"Well," Isobel said, "I should have a good look at the house, finally. Why don't you rest up for tonight."

They both stood, and he watched as she left the room.

Once alone, Tom sat back down and set to wonder whether hiding a part of himself meant he was leaving it behind for good—whether it meant he would become something other than who he was.

* * *

Claire Branson hadn't been sure she had wanted to make the move north. She liked Manchester, had lived there now half her life. And Ireland was also still there to return to, if she wanted. But Isobel had told her the job would get easier in Yorkshire. There would be a butler—the _other_ family would expect it—and she, Matthew and Tom were likely to dine with them with some frequency, giving her more nights off.

Tonight was the first such night, and here in her brand new sitting room, having ample time to write letters home to her relatives in Dublin for the first time in months, Claire decided she was glad to have come.

She had just started one to her late mother's sister, when her son's voice startled her.

"I hear you want to disown me."

She turned and saw him looking as fine as he'd ever looked, wearing clothes befitting a true gentleman—one who had been made, not born. She smiled proudly, but couldn't help but be his mother by saying, "Don't lean against that dirty door."

He stood up straight and swung his arms out. "How do I look?

She went over to him, brushed his shoulders with her hands and straightened his white bowtie. "A handsome devil, just like your father. Too handsome for your own good, as a matter of fact."

This made him smile. He liked making her proud—the thought reminded him of why he'd come down.

"So about this silly plan to hide my identity—"

"It's not _hiding_ , just not letting people judge you by things that aren't their business. As soon as you tell anyone you're a housekeeper's son, they'll stop thinking of you as Mr. Tom Branson and they'll starting thinking of you as Tom, the housekeeper's son. It's not fair."

"But I want to change that—won't submitting to that ridiculous prejudice render me unable to criticize it?"

"Tommy, you have to live in this world before you can change it. If your father had known that, he might still be with us."

Tom frowned. "If he were still with us, you and I wouldn't be standing here right now. He gave us more in death than he might have in life. Will you not give him the benefit of the doubt by believing that might have been his intent all along?"

She sighed. "I wouldn't be standing here, but you might still be." She cupped his face with her hands. "Oh, my dear boy, you are so much better than the world that made you."

He pulled her into a hug. "I'm only as good as you made me."

They continued to hold each other for a long moment, not separating until they heard a soft knock on the door. It was Moseley.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Branson, but Mr. Pratt is here."

"Thank you, Mr. Moseley, I'll be right there." He kissed Claire on the forehead and said, "I'll come down to say goodnight."

Claire followed him out of the room and stood next to Moseley as Tom headed up to leave with the family. She was about to get back to her letters when she saw a smile on Moseley's face, where there was usually a dour or blank expression.

He turned to her upon catching her watching him. "Your son, he . . . well, it's curious. When he's down here with you he calls me Mr. Moseley. Today, since they've arrived, when he's been upstairs with Mrs. Crawley or Mr. Matthew, he's called me Moseley as they do. He's not misspoken once that I've noticed."

Claire smiled. "He's lived on that line his whole life."

"Dr. Crawley, Mrs. Crawley's husband, he saw to all his needs without prejudice?"

"Treated him like his own son his entire life. I never wept for an employer like I did the day of his death."

"Did you ever worry it was all too inappropriate? That people would judge him as a social climber?"

Claire sighed. "Every day. But when someone as kind as Dr. Crawley offers you the chance to change your only son's life for the better, to give him a life outside of service, do you refuse him?"

Moseley smiled again. "I suppose not."

* * *

As Downton Place readied for their dinner guests, Cora was worrying about Mary.

Upon the girls' return from the village that afternoon, Edith had described the family as nice. The young men—there were two, Cora learned—were both courteous, but the visit had been too short for more of an opinion to be formed beyond superficialities.

Mary, never one to withhold her opinions when speaking to her mother, had said little. Cora knew that her daughter, despite outward appearances, felt pulled in all directions when it came to talk of the family estate. Cora was concerned about how Mary was responding to yet another stake on it.

Having seen to Sybil, as had now become their routine before dinner, and having complimented her on her choice of a pale blue frock Cora had bought for her recently but that Sybil hadn't yet worn ("It felt like the right hue for the occasion."), Cora headed to Mary's room to reassure her and gauge her mood as she finished getting ready for dinner.

"Are you almost ready, dear?" Cora asked as she walked in.

"I don't see why they have to come here at all if you're going to undo it," was Mary's response. Cora was glad to have come in, if this is how her night was going to start.

"Your father is not convinced it can be undone," Cora said.

"You'll still try."

"Your grandmother and I are going to try."

"And papa is not?"

Cora proceeded gently. "He wants Downton to be reopened, the hospital to be saved and the estate to thrive again. He believes that future is assured with Matthew's fortune. You know how your father feels about all of that."

"It's the same as I feel. We agree and somehow still don't see eye to eye."

Cora stepped forward and put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Mary—"

"How does a middle class solicitor come into so much money?" She asked, interrupting, not eager to discuss her father.

"Apparently, it was his fiancé's fortune. She willed it to him before she died."

Mary let out a humorless laugh. "It's funny how a woman can leave her money to a man, but not the other way around."

"Are you going to join the suffragettes to change the laws?" Cora said smiling.

"Mama, don't be ridiculous."

"Well, it's not over yet. We're trying to find a lawyer who will take it on."

Mary sighed. "Thank you. I know it will be an uphill battle, but it means something that you're trying."

"He's fighting for you in his own way."

"Let's not talk of papa."

"So you haven't told me what you thought of them."

"She's nice enough. He's . . ."

Mary didn't know what to say. She knew he'd heard her remark regarding his intentions, and she saw him smile at her when she introduced herself. It felt a little bit like behind his eyes he was laughing at her. That might have been her imagination, but she didn't like feeling not in control, and in her snide comment, in his non-reaction to it, the already unsteady ground under her feet fell further. All she had to cling to now was her position—even if it was obvious that Matthew didn't care that she was above him.

Finally, Mary turned to leave, "Let's just go down and you can see for yourself."

* * *

Isobel, Matthew and Tom were welcomed into the house by the entire family and staff. The family, joined by Robert's mother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, Violet Crawley, numbered six. The service staff, without Pratt whom they'd already met, numbered nine.

Tom knew that at large country estates, like the one Matthew was intent on saving, the staff could count up to thirty. This display, despite the smaller numbers, was no less intimidating, as far as he was concerned. In the dark of the late evening, it had been hard to get a good look at the house as they approached in the car, but the inside was as luxurious as it felt imposing. Having not yet seen it, but having heard it described as much grander than Downton Place, Downton Abbey suddenly loomed very large in Tom's mind. What could that house possibly look like in comparison with this one, when this was already, in Tom's estimation, a veritable palace.

As he looked over the employees, Tom tried to picture his mother there. He supposed that for some who worked in service, a job in such a house, with such a family, was the ultimate aspiration. His mother was too loyal to the Reginald Crawleys to have ever wanted more, and even discounting what they had done for him, Tom knew that she considered her position with them as good a job as any. Tom also watched the footman, who was staring forward, expressionless, for a brief moment. He looked to be about Tom's age, so as was his habit, Tom thought about the doors in life that open or close as a result of a single action. But for one man's interest in his ability to read at a young age, he might still be standing in this very room, but in a different position altogether.

The greetings between the families were as cordial as anyone could expect given the circumstances, which was to say not overly warm but not entirely cold either. The only moment worth remembering, which Tom would relay in detail to his mother later that night, was when Isobel was introduced to the Dowager Countess.

"What should we call each other?" Isobel asked, approaching her in her usual friendly manner and raising her hand for a handshake.

"Well, we could always start with Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham," Violet responded, taken aback, as if Isobel's question had been an insult. Isobel's hand was ignored, but she remained smiling, as if nothing had happened.

Tom, trying very hard not to be entirely cynical about the whole exercise, couldn't help but roll his eyes at the Dowager's snobbery. Immediately after doing so, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

_She_ had, of course. Just his luck.

Sybil's eyes had, in fact, been on Tom since he'd walked in— _looking more handsome than any man has any business looking_ , she thought—and her brow furrowed slightly when he rolled his eyes at her grandmother. Seeing her reaction, he could only respond with a grin. Seeing his grin, she looked away, pulling her lips into her mouth as if trying to stop herself from smiling.

On the way to Downton Place, discussing details about the family and what to expect, Isobel had mentioned that she was not out in society yet, which meant she was likely seventeen— _sixteen at the very youngest_ , Tom thought. As far as he knew, of course, it was possible she was younger, but when they'd walked in, Tom, against his better judgment, had allowed himself a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looked in the pale blue dress she was wearing. That figure did not belong to a girl of fifteen.

* * *

Once seated for dinner, after the footman Thomas instructed Matthew on how to serve himself, Matthew was almost ready to give up on the prospect of cordiality with the family and simply deal with Robert as needed in his management of the estate. He was in the middle of silently acknowledging how right his mother had been regarding the family's prejudices as to their middle class status when Mary spoke up.

"You'll soon get used to the way things are done here," she said.

No one at the table, save perhaps Tom, would appreciate the Herculean effort it took for Matthew not to roll his eyes. "If you mean that we're accustomed to a very different life from this, then that is true."

Matthew understood and empathized with the fact that Mary was in an odd position. He was a stranger to her, and he was taking what—if the laws were rational—would be hers, but her uppity attitude was making his patience run short. He'd ignored her condescension this afternoon, but he wouldn't make a habit of it. Mary was beautiful. He couldn't deny that. Hers was the kind of beauty that she could wield as a weapon if she needed to. But he didn't like her, something about which he did not feel guilty as it was obvious she didn't like him.

Looking back and forth between them during that exchange, Sybil noticed a tension between her sister and Matthew, and told herself to say something to her about it later. In an effort to shift the tone to more neutral territory, she asked quietly, "What will you do with your time?"

But there would be no neutral territory to be found this evening.

"I found a job in Ripon," Matthew answered. "I've said I'll start next month, once we have a plan in place for the estate."

"A job?" Robert asked, incredulous.

"Tom and I have joined a partnership, you might have heard of it, Havel and Carter. They wanted to expand into industrial law though I'm afraid most of it will be wills and convenyancing."

"You're a solicitor as well?" Sybil asked Tom.

He nodded. "I am."

"Tom and Matthew had opened their own practice in Manchester. It was doing quite well," Isobel put in.

"Why not do that here?" Cora asked.

"Given Matthew's new role with your family," Tom said, "we thought it best to wait. It takes a significant effort to start on your own, especially somewhere new."

"It was a lucky break that the partnership was able to take us both on," Matthew added.

"But what about the estate?" Robert asked.

"I believe I've set aside enough time to get things moving and have my plan in place. Once it is, I am confident I'll have the time. There are plenty of hours in the day, and, of course, I'll have the weekend."

"We'll discuss it later. We shouldn't involve the ladies," Robert said.

Tom looked at Robert skeptically and sighed, in a manner he hoped was not obvious to everyone else. He knew such attitudes among men like Robert existed, and he was keen for an argument—wasn't he always—but he had made a promise to himself that he would not bring up his politics tonight, in order not to make Isobel worry over their acceptance of him. Now, though, given the turn of the conversation, he was coming dangerously close to breaking that promise.

Then, the Dowager pushed him over the edge.

"What is a weekend?"

His sigh, Tom was sure, was audible the second time. _These people._

Ignoring the Dowager, he asked Robert, "Why _not_ involve the ladies?"

If Violet's question had silenced half the dinner party. His silenced the other half. So he went on.

"I would think that as the father of daughters you would want to take special care to prepare them for a world that is generally unforgiving toward women—even ones in your daughters' privileged position. The less we involve women in questions of business, the more we leave them vulnerable to situations like the one your daughters find themselves in now."

"And what situation is that?" Robert asked. Tom could easily tell he was trying to contain his indignation.

"They are at the mercy of whatever men choose to court them for marriage. And at Matthew's. You're lucky that Matthew, at least, is a good man."

Tom didn't bother to look around the table, guessing what the reaction to his "radical" ideas would likely be. Still, curiosity got the best of him and he ventured a glance in Sybil's direction. She was staring at him wide eyed, but even without knowing her well he could tell it was in a good way.

He eventually broke the stare, needing to take a long drink of his wine.

What he didn't notice was Cora smiling to herself. She had found her lawyer.

* * *

After Tom's outburst, dinner concluded more or less without incident, the conversation turning and staying on the hospital, which Isobel was keen to visit and which, everyone agreed, needed to be looked to.

At dinner's conclusion, the women moved on to the drawing room, leaving Tom and Matthew alone with Robert. It hadn't occurred to either of the young men until this moment, how isolated Robert was from other men. They were now, for whatever it was worth, his closest relatives and, if he was to accept Matthew's plan for the estate, his closest advisors.

"I apologize if I spoke out of turn at dinner, Lord Grantham," Tom said, trying, for Matthew's sake, to sound a conciliatory note. He knew how much making changes to how things were done meant to Matthew. He didn't want to undermine him in any way.

Robert took a long pull from his scotch. He set down the empty tumbler and took a deep breath. "It's not the way things are done, involving women in such matters." Then he looked at Tom and smiled, "But my track record speaks for itself, so what do I know."

Matthew lit a cigar. "Tom has some interesting political theories, but however you may feel about that, he's also the most intelligent person I know."

Tom smirked. "He means next to himself."

Robert looked back and forth the between the two. "So if you're business partners at such a young age, how long have you two known one another?"

"Tom came to live with us when he was two. I was three. I don't know life without him."

"How did you come to retain your Irish accent?" Robert asked Tom.

Tom hesitated. They were veering toward the path he had hoped to avoid. He didn't yet know how he would answer the question Isobel and his mother so feared on his behalf.

"I finished my studies, including university, in Ireland," he said finally.

"Which university?"

"Trinity College, sir."

"Dr. Crawley allowed you to go to Dublin when Cambridge and Oxford exist on English soil?" Robert asked, then added with a teasing tone. "Or were you not up to snuff?"

Tom smiled. "I was."

Matthew and Tom glanced at one another momentarily. "It was his father's wish that he study in Ireland," Matthew said. Tom wondered whether Isobel had had that talk with him too.

"Hard to argue with that," Robert said, smiling warmly.

The trio drank quietly for a few minutes before Robert broke the silence. "Matthew, I know we have a lot to discuss, but I have to ask, specifically, what do you plan to do with Downton Abbey?"

"That's a complicated question."

Tom smiled at Matthew. "I think what Lord Grantham means is who will live there once it's open again?"

Matthew sighed. "Honestly, Robert, I haven't thought much beyond the fact that we do need to open it again."

"Did you own this house before you moved here?" Tom asked Robert.

"Yes," Robert answered

"Was it in use?" Tom asked.

"We rented it out."

"Did the rental income equal what it cost to employ a full staff at the abbey?" Tom asked.

Robert thought for a moment. "I'd have to check with Murray, my lawyer, but now that you mention it, I think it did."

Tom looked at Matthew. "There you are."

Matthew scratched his forehead and smiled at how easily the hardest question had been answered. "Do you think you'd like to go back to Downton Abbey, Robert?"

Robert sighed. "Very much. But I won't take advantage of you, Matthew."

"You won't be taking advantage, if it makes more economic sense for you to be there than here."

"How does it make more economic sense?" Robert asked.

Tom answered. "If the family's presence in the village—and more importantly, the presence of those you employ and the estate's tenants—can help reawaken its economic vitality, and renting this house offsets the cost, it's a better proposition for you to live there and not here. Shuttered, Downton Abbey is of no use to anyone."

"But what about you?" Robert asked.

"We are more than comfortable at Crawley House," Matthew said. "I will help keep the books regarding the house's expenses, but I must say I agree with Tom. I don't see a reason for you not to be there. You are the earl still."

"Can we confirm it, the cost issue, I mean, before I tell the family?" Robert asked.

"Certainly," Matthew said.

Robert put his cigar out and stood up. "Most clever chap in the room, indeed."

Tom smiled, embarrassed.

* * *

 

It was so late when Matthew, Tom and Isobel returned to Crawley House, that Tom expected his mother had gone to sleep without waiting up for him, but walking into the kitchen, he could see the light of her candle emanating from her sitting room.

He detailed the evening for her, including sharing the news that the Robert Crawleys would soon be living much closer to the village again. Claire was happy to hear about the good impression he'd made and laughed at hearing of Isobel's relentless pleasantness in the face of the Dowager Countess's disapproving expressions.

Tom was about to stand and leave for bed when she asked, "What about the young ladies?"

Tom smirked, knowing where she was going with this. "Is this why you want me to pretend I'm not your son, so I can marry well?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Can't I ask a simple question?"

Tom laughed. "They were nice. I didn't speak individually to any of them, to be honest."

"Are they pretty?"

"What do you think?"

Now it was Claire's turn to laugh. "Which did you think the prettiest—and don't pretend you don't have an opinion on that score, because your face is telling me that you do."

"I think it's time for you to go to bed," he said standing. He walked to the door before turning around and adding with a smile, "the youngest."


	8. An odd fellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Tom an Sybil's friendship: On the show, I always believed that Sybil loves Tom from early on, but because he's a servant and what the repercussions would be if a romance took place between them, she takes years to acknowledge that to herself, then even more time to acknowledge it to him and then her family. In this fic, Sybil does not immediately assume that her family will reject Tom outright, but that doesn't mean they marry within the year. She's still only sixteen, and it will take time for what is now just a crush to grow into admiration and then love. The same is true for him. As the de facto brother of the heir, Tom has a place in the family but he has to figure out the question of who he wants to be (and how much he wants people to know about himself) before he takes any steps forward with Sybil.
> 
> A word on how Robert sees Tom: Canon Robert is disinclined to dislike everything Tom says with regard to politics and the Ireland question because in Robert's opinion, Tom is a servant who stole a better future from his daughter. Everything is clouded by Robert's prejudice about Tom being working class and having the audacity to marry above that class. Here, at this point in the story, Robert sees Tom as a smart, well educated and polite middle class young man, and because Tom makes a good impression (by providing the plan for the family to return to Downton Abbey), Robert likes Tom and is willing to entertain Tom's opinions and even if he doesn't always agree.
> 
> Also, I thought for a while about how Tom and the Robert Crawley family would address one another since he is not their cousin like Isobel and Matthew. I settled on having him call everyone by their titles, and having Robert call him Tom while Violet, Cora and the girls call him Mr. Branson to start. Eventually as they get to know him and like him, the formalities will drop away.
> 
> Lastly, I adapt some dialogue from the show throughout story, in case you didn't notice in the last chapter.

 

Even though the excitement of dining with Cousins Mathew and Isobel Crawley and their friend Tom Branson kept them up past their usual bedtimes, Robert and the family were up early the next day, each battling a cascade of thoughts regarding their guests from the previous evening and what their presence would mean for their lives and for the future.

Robert awoke mulling the prospect of returning to the beloved house he had lost but doing so under the auspices of Matthew's largesse, not by his own doing or merit. Going back would be an occasion of great joy, but also a reminder of his failure. And what would his role be? Robert had enjoyed talking with both Matthew and Tom, and felt confidence in their joint abilities to secure Downton's future, but would it ever mean anything to them? Robert wanted Matthew to see Downton Abbey and the whole estate as something more than merely a monetary investment. Robert and every earl before him saw Downton and its protection as their birthright, but how could Matthew be expected to treat it as such, when it had only been his for a few months, and not for the whole of his lifetime as had been true of all who had come before?

Cora was considering Mary's prospects, as well as the need first to convince Violet to agree to ask Tom Branson to take on the entail and then to convince Mr. Branson himself to oppose his dear friend. His words last night regarding the fate of their daughters had moved her. She knew Robert and Violet, staked onto tradition as they were, tended to accept the course of things without question. In this particular case, Violet was eager to act on Mary's behalf, because of Matthew's class, not because she necessarily opposed the laws that had elevated him. She certainly hadn't opposed them when they favored Patrick—whom Violet considered her equal in rank—over Mary. Neither Violet nor Robert ever talked about money with Cora or their daughters because neither had ever expected them not to have enough. Given its complications, Cora knew that whoever took on the case would have to believe the laws had done Mary a disservice in order to see it through. Maybe Tom would not want to oppose the fortunes of someone he considered a brother, but Cora had to ask. It was obvious he empathized with the underlying cause, and finding someone else who did half as passionately as he seemed to would be hard.

Lying awake in the early hours, Mary wondered whether her mother and grandmother's efforts on her behalf would yield what she hoped or merely another disappointment—either way, she didn't want to have to tolerate Matthew Crawley's presence for more time than was absolutely necessary. Losing Downton Abbey had been a crushing blow, more so for her than anyone else, because she alone believed she had not yet lived her best years there. She knew it was selfish to think the damage her father had done was done specifically to her, _but wasn't that more or less true_ , she questioned. Edith and Sybil would never have presumed, as she did, that Downton was their future. She blamed her father for allowing her to think in such a way, for treating her as he might have treated an eldest son. Even after the move to Downton Place, Patrick had given her hope that the future she dreamed of might yet be, but now he was gone, and here was Matthew to clean up the mess and take Downton from her once again. She was not sure whether or not she wanted him to succeed.

Edith had thought, since Patrick's death, that she would resent the new heir upon meeting him, but she'd thought Matthew kind and handsome, with a personality made more interesting to her by his obvious disdain of Mary. Edith would have taken any opportunity to put her anger at her sister over Patrick behind her. It was exhausting to hate Mary, someone so outwardly perfect, so highly regarded by so many for no reason but her very haughtiness. But disdain was but a defense mechanism for Edith, an emotion necessary to tolerate having to exist in _her_ world. Because it was Mary's world and hers alone. Their parents, their relations, their friends, even their servants saw to that. Sybil was perhaps the only person Edith knew who was immune to it, or, at the least, who could ignore its pressures. Sybil was young, though. She had not yet been taught to be jealous. Edith wondered if, when Sybil's turn came to be presented to society, Sybil might understand what it felt like when others insinuated she did not measure up to the eldest Crawley sister. Or what it felt like when Mary herself told her outright—though Edith doubted Mary would to Sybil, if for no other reason than to antagonize Edith further. How could Edith do anything but begrudge the gifts her older sister was always throwing back in her face. Maybe Mary did not deserve Edith's ill will, _but she is always asking for it_ , Edith thought. And so Edith decided that if Matthew Crawley wanted a friend in the family who would help him keep Mary in her place, Edith would be that friend.

And then there was Sybil, who did not spend a single thought that morning on Matthew Crawley. How would that have been possible when Mr. Branson had ensconced himself atop her mind and would not give his position there away no matter how hard Sybil tried. It might have been easier to dismiss him if he were merely a handsome face, but what he'd said to her father about protecting his daughters by teaching them the ways of the world had stirred something in her that she hadn't quite felt before.

Mr. Branson had reminded her of her wish to go to school to learn something with some meaning beyond what was necessary for making polite conversation, and of how often when she was younger, she'd asked her father about his time at school and university and in the military forces or merely what he was reading in the newspaper only to be dismissed out of hand. Sybil wanted to know things beyond what others believed was appropriate for her to know, but beyond the wanting, she believed it necessary for her to know more than she did. And clearly, Mr. Branson was of like mind. He was, in fact, the first such person she had ever met. It was nice enough to watch him talk animatedly with her father from across the drawing room, but despite the pleasantness of the view, more so she longed to hear what he was saying. From her vantage point, the most she had been able to discern was her father's occasional firm but amiable disagreement. Robert might not have agreed with Mr. Branson on certain things, but he seemed to like him very much—at least that had been Sybil's impression.

Sybil herself was in the process of discovering that as she grew up she did not much agree with her father's opinions and increasingly felt a desire to question what his position offered and expected of her. But whatever Sybil might disagree with her parents and family on, rare was the occasion in which she or anyone who might also disagree would profess such disagreements openly. It was a curious thing to observe someone actually do it—and eloquently, too. Sybil wondered if she would have the opportunity to ask Mr. Branson about the things he believed, to have a substantive conversation with him. But if she did, what would she, with so little real schooling, have to say that would be of any interest to him?

Hearing the clock chime, Sybil finally got up from her bed and rang her bell, hoping against hope that it was Gwen who would come up.

For the last week, as the date of the arrival of the new heir neared, Carson and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, had been working the staff twice as hard as usual and offering no flexibility as to their specific duties, which meant that Anna had to see to all the girls. Sybil and Gwen hadn't had a moment to talk in several days.

It was a big change from earlier in the summer, when the family was away for the season and Sybil and Gwen had been much spoiled. Anna had been asked for the first time to travel to London with the family to help Mary and Edith, which meant Gwen was tasked with seeing after Sybil, who'd stayed behind once again. Sybil was left with no supervision other than Violet, who only summoned her to tea and dinner a few times a week. On a couple of occasions, on Gwen's days off, Sybil would take the governess cart with Gwen to the neighboring village—taking care, of course, not to let Carson or Mrs. Hughes see them together, lest Gwen be reprimanded. It was during these times that their friendship—when it could exist outside of the confines of the lady-servant relationship—truly flourished. Now, Sybil knew it was important for her to be wary of her demands on Gwen's time, given Gwen's responsibilities, but Sybil missed her nonetheless.

Sybil had just sat down to her vanity when she saw Gwen coming in on her mirror's reflection. She practically leapt out of her chair with a shout.

"Oh, Gwen, I'm so glad you're here! It feels like it's been ages since we've been able to talk."

Gwen came into the room with a big smile and the two sat down on Sybil's bed. "Anna's been so busy this week, I suggested this morning that if she wanted to spend extra time with Lady Mary, I could come in for you if you rang while she was still up with her."

"I'm so glad you did," Sybil said excitedly. "There' so much I want to tell you."

"Me as well, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be more careful with Anna. I think she's starting to suspect something regarding my course."

"What makes you say that?" Sybil asked with concern.

"I got another parcel yesterday. Mr. Carson brought it in with the mail, and everyone saw. Then she caught me opening it in our room." After a pause, Gwen added, "I intimated that it was letters from a beau," sending both girls into a fit of giggles.

"Do you think you'll be found out?" Sybil asked after their laughter had subsided.

"I don't know whether that was enough to throw her off the scent, but either way, I do trust Anna. If I were to tell her my secret, I believe she would keep it. But enough about that! What do you think of the new heir's family?"

"I met them yesterday afternoon, actually. Mary, Edith and I went to see them at Crawley House, but we got there just as they'd arrived from the train from Manchester, so we weren't able to talk."

"Manchester, is that where they're from?"

"Yes. Both Cousin Isobel and Cousin Matthew seemed very nice, and we all had a pleasant time with them at dinner, despite—well, you saw the greetings, yourself."

Gwen laughed. "I dare say her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, didn't take too kindly to Mrs. Crawley."

"Granny doesn't take too kindly to anyone—she says it's part of her charm," Sybil said with a grin.

"But everyone got on at dinner?"

"More or less. Mary was a bit her uppity self with Cousin Matthew with regard to their position. And Thomas actually tried to give Matthew instruction on how to serve himself."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "He would. He's such a sour, self-satisfied fellow. Though I'm afraid he's not alone in his judgment. There's been a lot of talk downstairs about Mr. Crawley as to his class."

"Oh?"

"Given his status as middle-class, Mr. Carson and others think him unworthy of his lordship's title or—and please, don't repeat what I've said—"

Sybil took her friend's hands. "Gwen, you know I would never, but if you're uncomfortable—"

Gwen smiled. "No it's all right. It just . . . it doesn't speak well of us, and, well, we are allowed to speak freely downstairs."

"I'll not hold anything against anyone, I promise. Certainly not you."

"Well, some on the staff don't think him worthy our service."

"Oh my," Sybil said with a tone of surprise.

"To be fair, some spoke out of loyalty to the family, and to Lady Mary. Mr. Carson does hold her very dear to his heart."

Sybil smiled. "I don't begrudge his instinct to be protective of her prospects, but I must say I had no idea that people in the service of the upper classes could be as snobbish as the upper classes themselves."

"Oh, milady, you'll find that often they're much, much worse."

Sybil smiled. "Well, I've stolen enough of your time. I best get ready. Go on with the room, and I'll dress myself."

As Sybil picked out clothes for the day, Gwen opened the curtains and set about making the bed.

As she was pulling the sheets back, Gwen asked casually. "What did you think of the other gentleman?"

Sybil, who at that moment was stepping into her corset and skirt, took a deep breath. Of all the people in her life, Gwen was likely the only one who could see her blush and be able to understand exactly why she was regardless of the circumstance. "He was nice," she responded as nonchalantly as she could.

"And nice looking, if you don't mind my saying."

Sybil turned to look back at Gwen, who came up behind her to help with the lacings in the back, before going back to the bed. "Yes, he was definitely that, but . . ."

"But what?" Gwen asked.

Sybil slipped her blouse on. "I wish you could have heard him at dinner. He spoke quite movingly. I believe he supports women's rights. Papa was a bit scandalized." Sybil couldn't help but snicker.

"I remember Mr. Carson mentioning something about Mr. Branson speaking out of turn and having wild ideas about discussing business in front of women. He might have used the word 'insolent.' "

"It wasn't as bad as all that. In fact, I think papa rather liked Mr. Branson by the end of the evening. Him and Cousin Matthew, both."

"Well, Mr. Carson can be very traditional about that sort of thing."

"And here I thought papa was the worst."

Sybil sat down to her vanity, and Gwen came up, having finished the bed, to help her with her hair. Once it was up in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, Sybil stood to head to breakfast.

"I hope I didn't take too much of your time," she said to Gwen, who'd gone to the fireplace to clean up the ashes from last evening's fire.

"It's no bother, milady. I always enjoy our chats."

Sybil smiled. "Me too."

Sybil was about to open the door when Gwen asked her one more question.

"Would you say Mr. Branson is the most handsome man you've met?"

Sybil thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. But he's the cleverest, by far. I rather like that about him."

At the sound of the door closing behind Sybil, Gwen laughed to herself. It might not be noticeable to everyone else yet, but as her best friend, Gwen could see it easily. Lady Sybil was keen on Mr. Branson.

* * *

Sybil could hear Mary and Edith talking with their father when she walked into breakfast.

"Good morning, everyone," Sybil said cheerfully, going over to give Robert a kiss on the cheek before walking over to Carson for a plate.

"You're in good spirits this morning," Robert said.

"I enjoyed myself last night," Sybil said as she served herself. "It's been some time since we've met new friends."

"I'd be happy never to have met them," Mary said sourly.

Her sister's response gave Sybil a start. She turned from the buffet table toward Mary. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive," she said quietly. "I didn't mean I preferred their company to . . . I just . . ."

Mary smiled apologetically. "Darling, I know you didn't. I didn't mean to be short with you."

Sybil smiled back and went back to finish serving herself, before sitting down.

"Mary is a bit put out seeing as papa will be showing Cousin Matthew and Mr. Branson the estate this morning," Edith said.

"I just don't see why the rush," Mary said. "The question of the entail still hasn't been settled."

"It's been settled, just not to you or your mother's liking," Robert said without looking up from his newspaper.

Sybil could see Mary bristle at her father's words. Sybil was about to say something when Thomas walked in.

"Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson are in the entrance hall for you, milord. As are Mr. Murray and Mr. Jarvis."

"Good," Robert said folding up his newspaper and standing up. "Has Pratt brought the car around?"

"I believe he is on his way."

"Thank you, Thomas. Carson, please let her ladyship know they'll be joining us for luncheon."

"Very good, milord."

The girls watched as their father left without another word.

"Why are you so against him?" Sybil asked Mary.

"He is against me, or didn't you just witness," Mary replied.

"Papa is not against you, the laws are, but I meant Cousin Matthew. Why don't you like him? "

"Aside from the fact that he's planning to steal our inheritance."

" _Your_ inheritance," Edith said pointedly. "It makes no difference to Sybil and me. We won't inherit whatever happens."

Mary put her napkin down as if to stand. "He isn't one of us."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Cousin Freddy is studying for the bar, and so is Vivien MacDonald!"

"At Lincoln's Inn, not sitting at a dirty little desk in Ripon," Mary replied. "Besides his father was a doctor."

"There's nothing wrong with doctors," Sybil insisted. "We all need doctors."

Mary sighed with exasperation. "We all need sweepers and stable hands, it doesn't mean we have to dine with them."

At Mary's words, Sybil stood abruptly, having barely started her breakfast. "I've left something upstairs excuse me."

A bewildered Mary watched Sybil hurry out of the room, and when her eyes landed on Edith, sitting across from her, she saw a knowing expression on her younger sister's face. "What?"

"Does it ever occur to you that the palace you live in inside your head is too fancy to welcome anyone but you?" With that Edith stood and left Mary there alone.

Mary didn't know how long she'd been sitting there when Carson came up behind her and asked quietly, "Are you finished, milady?"

"What—oh, yes." She stood up to give Carson room to clear her plate. She moved to leave the breakfast table, when she heard him softly clear his throat. "Was there something else, Carson?"

"If I may, milady, Lady Sybil has a tender heart."

Mary smiled. "She does."

"Too tender perhaps to understand the realities of the world, as you and I do, and what propriety requires of us to live in it. "

"Thank you, Carson."

Mary took her leave and made her way up to Sybil's room, where she found her sister at one of her windows staring out onto the grounds.

Without turning around, but having heard Mary walk in, Sybil said, "What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"

Mary came up behind Sybil and put her hand on her shoulder. "Oh, darling, don't worry about such things. Once you're out, you'll marry best of all of us."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sybil said, shrugging off her sister's hand.

"Look, I know that you don't believe you'll have the same chances as Edith and I did during our seasons, giving our lesser state currently, but—"

Sybil turned to face her sister. "Is that what you think this is about—that I'm worried about my prospects?! Mary, look around! Can you explain to me what about our life now is so different from what it was at Downton Abbey? Or what makes someone less worthy of us because they have a profession—a good and honorable one?"

Mary sighed. "Sybil, you don't understand—"

"No, I don't understand. I don't understand why you are putting on all these silly airs when you know perfectly well who our mother's father was."

"Sybil—"

"And I don't understand why you insist on pretending your attitude toward Cousin Matthew is anything but an expression of grief." Sybil took her sister's hands into her on and her voice softened. "Your chance to be mistress of Downton is gone, and you have chosen to blame Matthew but it is not his fault. He was born into this situation, just as the men who work at our stables have no better prospects because they were born into theirs. Stop grieving the life that is no longer yours and grieve the _man_. Allow yourself to miss Patrick, please."

Mary pulled her hands away from Sybil and turned away. And it wasn't until her shoulders started to shake that Sybil could tell she was crying, _finally_ , for the cousin, the love she had lost. Sybil leaned against her sisters back and put her arms around her to offer comfort.

* * *

Some time later, Mary having calmed and left to go lie down with a sort of peace having been made between at least these two sisters, Sybil made her way to the library. She walked straight to the bookcase in the corner nearest to the door and stopped directly in front of it. After staring at it for a few minutes, Sybil sighed, underwhelmed by the selection.

"Would you like me to make a recommendation?"

A surprised Sybil gasped loudly and brought her hand to her heart, turning to see one Tom Branson smiling widely beside her, seeming quite pleased with himself.

Tom had been reviewing expenses at Downton Abbey from old ledgers Robert had left for him for the purpose of ensuring they could be covered when the family returned and Downton Place was rented out, but having more or less completed the task, he found himself a bit bored. He didn't want to intrude on the family by exploring the house. He'd looked around the library itself and was surprised by the wide range of titles on the subjects of history and politics, especially considering Robert's traditionalist leanings. A short time ago, he'd sat back down to check his work when he heard someone walk in. He practically lit up when he saw that it was Sybil.

"Do you enjoy startling me?" Sybil asked, brow furrowed, hoping she did not look as flushed as she felt.

"The first time was quite by accident. I admit this was deliberate, and since you ask, I did enjoy it, yes," he said with an impish smile, moving to stand next to her, also facing the bookcase.

Sybil's brow remained furrowed, but the corners of her lips curved upward. "I thought you were touring the estate with papa?"

"With his lordship, Matthew, Murray and Jarvis all present, there was no room in the motor for all of us, seeing as they were going to pick up a tenant on the way. As the least essential member of the party, I volunteered to stay behind."

"Have you been here alone the whole time?"

"The footman came in with some tea, but other than that, yes. I was looking over some of your father's old papers at his request, so the solitude was helpful."

"Does papa need legal help?"

"Accounting help," Tom said with a smile.

"So you're a jack of all trades."

"And a master of none."

The pair was content to look at one another for a long silent moment. This being the first opportunity each had to study the other up close.

Eventually, Tom turned back to the bookcase and asked, "So do you want one?"

"One what?"

"A suggestion about what to read. I assume that's why you're here."

"I've read them all already. I was just looking them over to see if any here merited re-reading."

"You've read all these books?" Tom asked turning to the rest of the library behind them.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Goodness, no! Just the ones on this shelf, here, where the fiction and poetry are kept."

"Do you not have a taste for nonfiction?"

"More like I don't have a mind for it."

"What do you mean?"

"My governess left me a year ago, and I haven't had any proper schooling. The reading of them is likely more than I am capable of."

Tom looked at her in a way that Sybil thought she could feel down to her toes. "I doubt that," he whispered.

He let another moment pass before he added in his normal tone of voice, "I had a very good education, and I can tell you that there's little more to university than reading books and talking about them with like minded people. The books are obviously at your disposal. This library is an education onto itself. You just need someone to make conversation with."

Sybil wondered if he would offer himself for the task. She had just about gathered the courage to ask, when he turned back to the bookcase they were still standing in front of.

"Reading all of these is no small feat. May I venture a guess as to your favorite?"

Sybil gestured for him to go ahead. He made a bit of a spectacle of perusing the titles, turning toward her to see if her reactions offered any hint. As she watched him, Sybil tried to contain her laughter. Finally, he settled on one, pulled it out of its spot and handed it to her. It was Wuthering Heights.

Sybil took it with a smile and flipped through the pages. "You must think me something of a silly romantic girl if you think I favor the heady melodrama of Catherine and Heathcliff." Handing it back to him, she said with a smile, "Of the Brontë sisters, I prefer Charlotte."

Tom put it back on its spot on the shelf. "Well, in my defense, I've known you for less a day."

"It's not a terribly bad guess given the circumstances."

"So what is your favorite?"

"Give it some time, and see if you can spot it accurately when you get to know me better."

Tom smiled at the prospect of many more conversations with her. "So what will it be, then?"

Sybil sighed, looking over the shelves. "I'm not sure. The choices have seemed a bit lacking of late."

"Lacking? There are hundreds of books in this room."

Sybil rolled her eyes at his teasing. "As to quality not quantity—well, not quality so much as variety."

"Variety?"

"Nothing here veers away from what you'd expect. There's nothing . . . unconventional."

"So that's what you're after?"

"I'd settle for something I've not read before."

"Well, in that case . . ." Tom put his hands on Sybil's shoulders and turned her to face away from the bookcase that held everything she knew and toward the rest of the library and everything she didn't. Standing behind her, he said, "The world awaits, Lady Sybil. Best get started."

She looked over her shoulder at him in wonder. Tom tapped her shoulders with his hands one more time and went back to the desk. "And when you're ready to discuss what you've picked, let me know."

Not a moment later, Edith walked by the entrance to the library.

"Sybil! There you are."

Sybil turned her head to see her sister at the door. "Here I am."

Edith walked in. "Oh, Mr. Branson, you're here."

"Yes, I stayed behind to do some work for his lordship," Tom said standing again with Edith's entrance.

"Do you need anything?" Edith asked.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

Edith turned to Sybil. "Do you fancy a walk? I wanted to go out of doors for a bit and thought some company might be nice."

Sybil smiled. "Sure."

With Sybil and Edith gone, Tom sank back into the chair with a sigh. He scratched his head wondering what kind of spell it was he was cast under in her presence. He wondered also why exactly it was that he had offered to stay behind, not daring to admit that the reason might have just left the room.

* * *

"He's an odd fellow, don't you think?" Edith asked, once she and Sybil were on the path around the grounds.

"Who, Mr. Branson?"

"Yes, with all that talk last night of teaching women about business."

"I found that quite interesting. I've always wished for an education of any kind."

Edith smiled, grabbing her sister's arm and linking it with her own. "Oh, dear Sybil, I'm afraid it's too late for us. We'll have to throw ourselves at the mercy of the next two dukes who come for a visit."

"Dukes? Why stop there? His majesty has two sons, does he not?"

Edith looked at her sister and the two clutched each other in a fit of laughter.

The truth was, though, the king himself couldn't have convinced Sybil to think of anyone else but the person currently sitting in the library.


	9. Accepting the Inevitable

Moseley was hovering.

Tonight was his second night with his two young masters in the house, and still they showed no signs of making use of his services as valet. So he resorted to pacing the hallway space between their bedrooms, waiting for them to finish undressing themselves so he could take their dirty clothes downstairs to be laundered.

In the week that Tom had been upstairs by himself, with Isobel and Matthew yet to arrive at Downton village, Tom had insisted on taking his laundry down himself—and saying no to every one of Moseley's offers of help. But with the mistress of the house now present, Moseley felt it necessary to assert himself and his position. He'd been asked, in the letter Isobel had sent to him ahead of her arrival, to give Mr. Branson a wide berth as he settled in, given his unique situation, but Moseley would only allow so much room. If Tom was a member of the family, Moseley would treat him as such—whether Tom liked it or not.

And he did not like it. Neither one of the young men did. It was a predicament unlike any Moseley, a butler for ten years now, had ever experienced. He was at his wits' end.

Isobel had seen him pacing a few minutes ago, when she'd come up from the kitchen after tea and a long chat with Claire in the housekeeper's sitting room.

"Is there something the matter, Moseley?"

"Not at all, mum. Just waiting for Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson to change so I may take their day clothes to Ivy for laundering."

"They won't accept your help with anything?" she asked knowing the answer.

"I'm afraid not," he said with a patient smile.

"I wish I could tell you that this will be an easy fight, but two more stubborn young men cannot be found in the whole of England. You may use the time in some other useful way until they relent. I will not think you are shirking your duties."

"Thank you, mum."

She proceeded to her room at the end of the hall, and Moseley continued with his pacing.

Moseley found Isobel a kind employer who ran her home with a steady hand. He'd worked for a widow before and knew that the absence of a husband caused some women to come to depend on others, especially when advanced in age, but Isobel showed no sign of softness in that regard. He was glad for it, and it served her well considering the untraditional nature of the family of which she was matriarch. Only a woman of strong conviction could lead such a clan with both discretion and disregard to what others might say. He was glad, too, that he and not some other, more judgmental person had been hired to serve them.

Others of his profession would have resigned upon learning that they'd be working for the child of a servant. It had been a shocking revelation to Moseley, but he would not walk away. He was the son of a butler and had once longed to step away from the family business. He eventually submitted to it, having found no other recourse but the army—and what he believed would be certain death as a member of the infantry, where the working class recruits were invariably assigned.

He had not and would never meet Dr. Reginald Crawley, the man who had generously offered Tom the alternative Moseley had not been given, but having heard his story, Moseley concluded that Dr. Crawley's memory merited respect. Moseley resolved to serve with dignity Reginald's two sons, the first natural, the second adopted. Even if those sons would not submit to his help without a fight.

The "fight" had started in earnest that afternoon.

Cora and Violet had stopped by to visit Isobel. While Tom had gone to his office in Ripon after luncheon at Downton Place, Matthew returned home and, when the guests arrived later that day, joined them for tea.

Moseley felt like a useless fop, walking a pace behind Matthew, trying to anticipate his needs as a butler should, but merely getting in the way of a man who seemed pleased to do everything himself and irritated that anyone should try to help him.

Recalling the experience, and the faces of Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess as they watched, understanding that in their minds the servant would always be at fault, Moseley felt a wave of irritation hit him again. Suddenly needing to do something more than just stand idly in the hallway, he knocked on Matthew's door.

"Come in."

Matthew was sitting at a small desk in the corner of the room writing and didn't bother to look up to see who it was. He'd removed his jacket, which now lay in a heap on his bed.

Moseley cleared his throat, causing Matthew to turn for a moment before going back to his writing.

"Can I help, Moseley?"

Moseley took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you needed help, sir, getting out of your suit."

Matthew finished what he was writing, put away his pen and turned to face him. "I can certainly manage getting into my bedclothes on my own."

Moseley did not move from his spot.

Matthew smiled at the man's relentlessness, then stood to walk to his wardrobe and opened it. "I know I'm a disappointment to you Moseley, but it's no good. I'll never get used to getting dressed and undressed like a doll."

"I'm only trying to help, sir."

"Of course. And if I've offended you, I apologize, but surely you have better things to do."

"This is my job, sir."

"Well, it seems a very silly occupation for a grown man."

Having realized what he'd just said and the offense he might have given, Matthew slumped and turned back to Moseley, whose expression had not changed. "I'm sorry."

"May I take your laundry, then?"

Matthew sighed. He took his pajamas into the bathroom adjacent to his room and in a few minutes returned dressed for bed and with his suit in his hands.

Moseley took the clothes from him. "Thank you, sir."

"I really am sorry."

Moseley gave a slight bow and left the room.

He'd just closed the door behind him, when across the hall, Tom's door opened. He was wearing his pajamas and a robe, his clear intention to take his own laundry downstairs.

"Mr. Branson, I'm already taking Mr. Crawley's clothes downstairs. There is certainly no use in both of us making the trip."

Tom was about to object, but upon closer inspection of Moseley's face, which carried the expression of a man who'd had a long, trying day, he relented and handed Moseley his clothes.

With a smile, Tom asked, "Are we trying your patience a bit too much?"

"Not at all, sir," Moseley replied with a tone that suggested a sliver sarcasm—as much as any dignified butler would allow himself—causing Tom to laugh.

"Good night, Moseley."

"Good night, sir."

_They are stubborn_ , Moseley thought as he made his way downstairs. _But so am I._

* * *

The following morning, Cora was up and about early. Seeing Violet before luncheon was not her idea of starting the day off on the right foot, but Robert and Matthew were moving full steam ahead with their plans for the estate. If they were going to do something on Mary's behalf it had to be soon. There was also the fact that Mary wasn't having an easy time with the uncertainty of her position. After so many years married to Robert, Cora would never have expected that the little that was left of her money would be the point at which she and Violet would form an alliance, considering how distasteful Violet found the topic of money in general and how even more distasteful Violet had found Cora upon learning that her son had agreed to marry her for her fortune. Still, Violet had her moments, wherein grace and intuition would rule over the aristocratic upbringing. Cora was hoping one such moment would take place this morning because the further along Matthew got into his plans, the harder it would be to task Tom with working against them.

They'd been discussing the entail almost since Cora arrived. She'd been waiting for just the right moment to suggest his help.

"We're running out of options," Violet said a bit irked at not having found a solution to her liking. "Lawyers I write to only huff and puff. They echo Murray, 'Nothing can be done.' "

"Well, they don't want the bother of opposing him," Cora responded.

"Precisely," Violet said with a sigh.

"I wish Mary wasn't so confident it could be put right."

"What has she said about him?"

"About Matthew? Nothing particularly forgiving, I'm afraid."

"Who can blame her? He seems an odd young man with all that talk of weekends and jobs. And the company he keeps!"

"You mean Mr. Branson?" Cora asked, wishing he'd entered into the conversation in a more positive way. Violet was going to take convincing about Cora's plan as it was.

"Women discussing business—who ever heard of such a thing! Next, he'll be saying we should take seats in Parliament."

Cora smiled, knowingly. "Perhaps if we did, the laws would have prevented this situation."

Violet rolled her eyes. "Of course, _you_ would agree with him. But that aside, there is another way out of this."

"What would that be?" Cora had a suspicion where Violet was going but was surprised she would suggest it.

"Let them be married."

"Mary and Matthew?"

"Certainly, I don't mean Mary and Mr. Branson!"

Cora laughed. "I thought you didn't like Matthew."

"So what!? I have plenty of friends I don't like."

"But would you want Mary to marry one of them?"

Violet, looking at Cora out of the corner of her eye as she lifted her tea cup, replied, "You and Robert have a noxious habit of pretending to be nicer than the rest of us. Well, Robert does, anyway. I suppose being American, you feel you must be nice to everyone, tedious as that may be."

Cora could only laugh at Violet's condescension.

"If Mary were to marry him, then all would be resolved," Violet concluded.

Cora paused. This was the moment. "I haven't entirely given up on finding a lawyer."

"Did you have someone in mind? Because as I said, we're running out of options."

"Well, we now know two more lawyers than we did a week ago," Cora said with a serene smile.

"Surely, you're not suggesting asking Matthew! Do you really think he'd argue against his own interests?"

"I was actually thinking of Mr. Branson."

"What?"

"He's a solicitor as well. Robert spoke highly of him after they came to dinner, and we've already heard him argue for the notion that women should have some rights."

"A _radical_ notion."

"Are there any alternatives?"

Violet sighed. "Has it really come to this?"

"I'm presenting it as a last resort, but to be honest, I think he'd do more justice to the task than whoever might have been our first choice. I'll talk to him."

"No, let me. He'll still need some convincing. We are asking him to oppose his friend, and forgive me, Cora, but I am better at getting people to do what I want."

"I won't argue with that."

The matter settled, the two sat in silence as they finished their tea and biscuits.

After a while, Violet spoke up. "Is anything being done for Sybil's birthday?"

"Oh, yes. We'll have her favorite dinner as usual. I was thinking of inviting the Grey family—they're very fond of Sybil—and perhaps Rosamund and the MacClares if they are back in London."

"I believe they're still in the Highlands, but Rosamund would make the trip, I'm sure."

"Robert has missed his time at Duneagle the last two years."

"I don't know why. Shrimpie extended the invitation."

"I think he still feels rather humbled about the loss of Downton and has exiled himself from there as penance."

"I really wish he would just get on with it. Humility is such a trying emotion."

Cora smiled. "I wouldn't have thought you familiar with it."

"Oh, not me. I just mean it's trying when I have put up with it in someone else."

* * *

"You do not love the place yet."

Robert's words startled Matthew.

"Well, obviously, it's—"

"No you don't love it, but perhaps you will."

The two had taken another trip to Downton Abbey, alone this time, to explore the grounds on foot. Their visit with Murray and Jarvis the day before had been productive. Murray was as eager to modernize as Matthew was, having been privy to how perilously close the family had been to losing Downton for decades before it actually happened and having warned Robert about that prospect to no avail until it became reality. Jarvis was not so open to new ideas. He'd more or less lost his job when the family had been forced to abandon the estate and sell roughly a third of the land off, as well as several houses and cottages in the village. Robert had thought Jarvis would like the opportunity to return when what remained of the farms, most of which had lain fallow for the last year, would be made active again. But unless it involved returning to the old ways, Jarvis had not seemed much interested, which meant that Matthew's plan now included finding a new land agent.

On this visit, Robert and Matthew's discussion focused on the big house itself. It was alarming to Robert the extent to which it had fallen into disrepair in only 15 months, but he was hopeful that it could shine again. After studying the finances, Tom had given him a promising report regarding the family's possible return. The rent sought for Downton Place would have to increase from previous years in order to fully cover the costs of upkeep and staff at Downton Abbey. Tom had taken the liberty of figuring a generous raise for the servants in the process, which Robert accepted, albeit somewhat reluctantly at first, for fear it would make a renter more difficult to find. Murray, however, assured Robert that the task would be easy. Ironically, it turned out, the fact that men like Robert were losing their estates and needing to downsize created a greater demand for smaller country homes like the one the Crawleys had escaped to when crisis first hit.

Now, seeing his rightful seat in the distance, as he and Matthew walked, Robert pledged not to lose it again—which meant ensuring that Matthew would grow to love it as his own.

Matthew smiled at his entreaties. "I understand your attachment to it, Robert, and I remember it as a marvelous place, but it is just a house."

Robert sighed. "To you, perhaps. You see a million bricks that may crumble, a thousand gutters and pipes that can leak and stone that will crack at the frost."

"But you don't?"

"I see my life's work—such as it is. I failed those who came before. I failed you as heir, but you've offered your own form of rescue. I want you to come to see the worth, the importance of what you've done. I would like that to be my role going forward, if I can offer nothing else."

Matthew smiled again. "Murray mentioned yesterday that the estate had been in danger before."

Robert laughed. "Many times. My dear papa thought the balloon would go up in the 1880s."

"What saved it?"

"Cora."

The two continued walking in silence. Matthew knew that people of Robert's position often married for reasons having to do more with family politics than love. Robert had more or less had married for the sake of saving his family home, believing it part of his duty. _Duty_. Matthew thought back to the question Tom had asked him when he was still pondering whether to come to Yorkshire to rescue the estate.

_"Do you think you could make it_ your _duty?"_

Matthew wasn't sure he could answer that question. At least, he wasn't sure whether he'd ever be prepared to make a marital decision such as Robert had made. Downton would be his, but the extent to which he would accept such emotional ownership of it remained uncertain in his mind.

Robert pulled him out of his reverie.

"About your scheme for buying back and restoring the estate cottages."

"You like the idea?" Matthew asked.

"Very much. I believe it will do the village much good, and might offer just compensation to the tenants who chose not to move forward with us."

"That's the hope. As we've seen with Jarvis, not everyone will like the idea of forward change."

"Why don't you come for dinner, and we'll talk about it. I know it's getting late, but we can let Isobel and Tom know, and have them bring Moseley with your clothes."

"I've been meaning to speak to you about Moseley," Matthew said, happy not to have to broach the topic himself.

"Oh?"

"Would you find me very undignified if I dispensed with his services."

"Why? Has he displeased you in some way?"

"Not at all. It's simply that he's superfluous to our style of living. Neither Tom nor I have ever used the services of a valet."

"Is that quite fair? To deprive a man of his livelihood when he's done nothing wrong?"

"I know you see it differently, but—"

"You must derive satisfaction from your work, I think, a sense of self worth."

"Certainly," Matthew said, not sure where Robert was taking his point.

"Would you really deny the same to poor old Moseley? And when you are master here is the butler to be dismissed or the footman? How many maids or kitchen staff will be allowed to stay, or must everyone be driven out?"

Matthew sighed. This hadn't been the conversation he wanted to have.

"We all have different parts to play, Matthew, and we must all be allowed to play them."

Robert continued walking, leaving Matthew to contemplate what he'd just said.

Matthew knew Tom well enough to know he would never accept the services of a valet. But Matthew was starting to realize he himself might be left with no choice in the matter.

And indeed, that evening, when Matthew sent word to the house about dinner at Downton Place, he requested that Moseley come along and with a rueful smile, submitted to his ministrations. Meeting Tom again on the landing as they headed to the drawing room before dinner, Tom greeted Matthew with a teasing grin, which, oddly, comforted Matthew. Because if he had to become an aristocrat, he figured, better that it happen without his best friend's judgment or discomfort.

"I see you've given in," Tom said.

"Yesterday, in talking to Robert about change at Downton, I offered that it was inadvisable to fight the inevitable. I decided to follow my own advice." Matthew smiled, then added, "But you should be careful."

"Why is that?"

"Because this means Moseley will be gunning for you next."

Tom rolled his eyes and laughed.

"We'll see about that."

* * *

Cora had been thinking about her conversation with Violet all day. Mary and Matthew. Matthew and Mary. It wasn't a terrible idea. It was a sensible solution, but would they accept it? Cora didn't presume to know Matthew well enough to know how he would react to the suggestion, but she had a feeling she knew what Mary would say. Their first interactions had not been warm, to say the least.

When time came to get ready for dinner, Cora dressed quickly, and after dismissing O'Brien, her lady's maid, headed straight for Mary's room. Cora came into the room just as Anna was leaving.

"You look very nice, my dear," Cora began.

"Thank you."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Better?"

"Anna said you were laying down most of yesterday. I assumed you weren't feeling well."

"Oh, it was just a headache."

Cora stood behind Mary, who was sitting at her vanity, and smiled at her daughter's reflection in the mirror. "I'm glad to get you alone."

Mary smirked. "That sounds ominous."

"Violet and I talked again about finding a lawyer. I think we settled on one."

"Will he take the case?"

"We haven't asked yet, but I think so."

"Good."

"But I do want you to be prepared for all possible outcomes."

Mary looked up at her mother. "Don't tell me you've lost hope."

"No. But I don't want you to feel you have to dislike Matthew."

Mary rolled her eyes and stood, while Cora took her place on the seat of the vanity, facing her daughter, who was now in front of her full length mirror.

"You disliked the idea of him," Mary said.

"That was before he came. Now he's here, I don't see any future in it. Not the way things are."

Mary was losing her patience. Her father had never been in her corner. She didn't want to lose her mother too. "I don't believe a woman can be forced to give away all her money to a distant cousin of her husband's. Not in the 20th century. It's too ludicrous for words."

"It's not as simple as that. The money isn't mine any more. It forms a part of the estate."

"Even so when a—"

"For once in your life will you please just listen!" Both Mary and Cora were surprised at the force of Cora's words. Perhaps Cora couldn't convince her daughter to like Matthew, but she at least had to convince her to consider the possibility. Cora loved her eldest daughter, but, stubbornly, Mary had been the last to accept the ramifications of the loss of the family fortune. She had to be made to see reason.

Cora took a deep breath and began again. "I believe there is an answer, which would secure your future and give you a position."

Mary knew immediately what her mother was talking about, but no. She would accept Matthew as heir if she was given no alternative, but she would not be forced to marry him. "You can't be serious."

"Just think about it."

"I don't have to think about it. Marry a man who can barely hold his knife like a gentleman?"

"Oh you exaggerate," Cora said, rolling her eyes.

Mary shook her head dismissively. "You're American. You don't understand these things. Have you mentioned this to granny? Did she laugh?"

"Why would she? It was her idea."

Mary's head whipped around to her mother, but before she could retort, there was a knock on the door. It was Sybil.

"There you are, mama."

"Oh, I'm sorry I missed you, my darling. Let's see how Gwen has done."

Sybil turned around to show off the back of her hair, which was up in a series of ornate loops, a more ambitious an effort from Gwen than usual.

"She's getting better," Mary said.

"I think so," Sybil said, pleased with her and her mother's seeming approval.

"You do look very nice my dear. I'm glad you're putting in a bit more effort."

Sybil blushed. _Is it_ that _obvious?_

Mary turned to her mother. "You have two more daughters, mama, maybe they will consider your and granny's proposal."

"What proposal?" Sybil asked.

Cora gave Mary a sharp look before turning back to Sybil. "Never you mind. Now are we all ready to go down?"

"Actually, mama, I came in to see you but also for my gloves. I must have left them here last night."

"Well, hurry along. Matthew, Isobel and Mr. Branson are already downstairs."

As Cora left, Mary went to her night table where Sybil's gloves were still resting.

"What was all that about?" Sybil asked.

Mary came back over and handed her the gloves. "Mama, thinks Matthew and I should marry."

Sybil, who had started to put her gloves on, stopped short, thinking of the previous morning and her long-overdue outpouring of grief for the man Mary would have married. "What do you think of that?"

Mary sighed and sat on the bed. "I don't know. I don't want to."

"Well, you do have a choice," Sybil said coming to sit next to her.

"Do I?" Mary said with a rueful smile.

"You had a choice with Patrick."

"Patrick was different."

"Patrick wasn't middle class, you mean," Sybil said frowning.

"To start."

"Well, I do think you're unfair in putting so much interest in Matthew's position now seeing as he'll be an earl. But you really don't have to if you don't want to."

"Would you like to marry him?" Mary asked pointedly.

"Me? No!" Sybil laughed.

Mary stood and held out her hand for her sister. "He'll have to settle for Edith, then. Lord knows she'll settle for anyone."

They shared a giggle then headed downstairs. As they walked down the staircase, though, Sybil frowned slightly. It occurred to her as they headed down that in the moment that had just passed, Mary believed Sybil had objected for the same reason Mary had—an assumption that Sybil expected to marry a man of her own station. And in that regard, Mary was wrong. Sybil held no such expectation.

Sybil liked Tom. Very much. Yet she was mature enough not to have yet entertained the idea of marrying any specific person, let alone someone she'd just met, regardless of social status.

Even so, the question she'd asked Mary yesterday suddenly crept back into her mind.

_"What if I were to marry a middle class lawyer, would you ever deign to dine with us?"_

Sybil had only asked to make a point, but now she wanted to know.

And the answer was anything but clear.


	10. The Promise to Return

 

Sybil entered the drawing room just behind Mary and saw that they were the last of the family to arrive. Matthew, Isobel and Edith were sitting on the sofa, and Violet and Cora were across from them in armchairs. Her father was at his usual spot by the hearth. Next to him was Tom.

Sybil was about to walk over to them when her mother gestured to her. Sybil went over to Cora, who extended her hand and took Sybil's into hers.

Turning to the sofa, Cora said, "Isobel, I do hope you will all join us for Sybil's birthday celebration next week."

Isobel perked up at the invitation. "We'd love to come."

"We'll be inviting some family friends as well as Robert's sister, Rosamund," Cora went on. "Not a big to do, but enjoyable, we hope."

"How old will you be?" Matthew asked.

"Seventeen," Sybil answered quietly.

_There's that mystery solved_ , Tom thought to himself, smiling. She was slightly younger than he'd thought, but no less interesting for it, if their first conversation—and her apparently voracious appetite for books—had been an accurate indication.

"What a delightful age," Isobel said, "though I suppose a bit frustrating, too."

"Oh? How so?" Violet asked with a skeptical expression.

"Old enough to be aware of the adult world but still too young to have it within reach yet," Isobel responded.

"An accurate description, to be sure," Sybil said with a smile.

Mary sat down in the spot vacated by Matthew, who had moved to join the other men at the hearth, both steering well clear of each other in the process. Notice of their interaction did not escape Sybil.

Isobel, who had been discussing the possibility of helping at the hospital to Cora and Violet before Sybil and Mary had walked in, continued the conversation, giving Sybil the opportunity to walk over to the other side of the room, to the chaiselong by the window to sit down. She'd not been there but a few minutes when Tom sauntered over to her.

"You will notice that I let you see me as I approached," he said jokingly, leaning against the window sill next to the chaise.

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for that."

"So have you chosen a book? I noticed that you left the library yesterday morning without having done so."

"I am still thinking about what topic to start with." She paused for a moment, then asked, "What interests you?"

"History and politics, but that shouldn't enter into your decision."

"Why not?"

"This is about _you_. You should learn about things that _you_ like."

Sybil felt herself blushing ever so slightly at the pointed way he'd said 'you,' punctuated by a nod of his head.

"That's an advantage you'll have in an informal education," he continued. "You are not at the mercy of your professor's scholarly inclinations. So what does interest you?"

She thought for a moment. "I will risk sounding flighty in saying so, but I'm not sure. I think I would know what would interest me if I saw a topic in front of me, but I don't know that I've ever been prompted to vocalize it just generally."

"Nobody has ever asked you what your interests are before?"

She furrowed her brow and looked down, realizing the truth for the first time. "I don't think anybody has." She looked back up at him. "I suppose I should thank you."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

She thought for a few minutes more. "This is harder than I thought. I feel as if I am thinking of everything and nothing at the same time."

"OK, what do you like to do?"

"I like riding, and walking through our gardens here. When I was a child, I enjoyed pretending my dolls were sick so I could cure them. All of that said aloud and at once makes me seem very silly—I'm afraid there is no serious subject in any of it."

"Nonsense. You have sport, botany and medicine—three terribly interesting subjects. I'm sure your father has stocked plenty of volumes on each. And I know Aunt Isobel would be happy to recommend a starter in the subject of medicine."

"That's quite a parlor trick."

Tom looked out the window, smiling, as if embarrassed. Watching his profile, Sybil considered how boyish he looked. He was several years older than her, obviously, but younger than his intellect made him seem.

"I also liked what you said yesterday about women being better informed as to how the world affects us," she added, bringing his attention back to her.

He smiled widely. "Women's rights—a topic also available in your library, though it's one your father would probably prefer you steer clear of."

"If you think that disqualifies my interest, you're wrong."

His eyes widened in delighted surprise.

"How does a young man like you engender such an interest?" She asked, surprising him again.

She didn't know it, of course, but it was a loaded question given that his answer was the plight of widowed and working women like his mother, the housekeeper.

Feeling a bit hypnotized by her sweet and sincere charm, he opened his mouth slowly to speak, not sure what would come out. Before he had a chance to say anything, though, Carson called them to dinner.

"A topic for another day," he said, extending his hand to help her up. She stood, and side-by-side they followed the rest of the party to the dining room.

No one had heard Sybil and Tom's conversation, but as she stood up, Cora briefly wondered about the reason for Sybil suddenly making an effort to look her best. Then, Cora's eyes went to Mary, who was looking at Matthew warily. And just like that whatever thought had been forming in the back of the mother's mind about the youngest daughter evaporated into worry about the eldest and was forgotten.

* * *

Once everyone else had filed into the dining room and sat down, Robert, still standing behind his chair, cleared his throat to get everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement to make, a celebratory one that even now I can scarcely believe I am making."

Mary looked over to her mother, a question in her expression, but Cora shrugged her shoulders slightly, making it clear she didn't know what was coming.

Robert continued. "Thanks to Matthew's generosity and Tom's sharp mind, in a month's time we will be leaving this house to return to our home at Downton Abbey."

The collective gasp that went around the room was a mix of joy and disbelief.

Cora, tears in her eyes and not able to contain herself, stood and walked around the table to hug her husband, whose eyes were red with emotion. After, she did the same with Matthew and Tom. Violet tsk'ed at this outward show of effusive emotion, but happiness was visible behind her eyes. Sybil and Edith laughed with joy, happy for their family's turn in fortune, and as they both turned to a stunned Mary, they saw her stoic countenance trying to fight a wave of warring emotions. Mary, in truth, did not know what to think. This is what she had wished for, to go back to the house that she'd always intended to be her home forever, so why was she now unsure as to her place there?

Cora noticed Mary's reaction and grabbed her shoulder in a show of support on her way back to her chair. "This is wonderful news, don't you think, Mary?"

This pulled Mary back into the room, and she smiled. "Yes, very much." She looked down to collect herself, then looking at Matthew with a look that conveyed sincere gratitude if short of sincere affection, said quietly, "Thank you."

Matthew returned her smile and, seeing a quality akin to vulnerability in her for the first time, resolved to let down his own guard as well.

Carson, who'd been standing with Thomas in the back of the room, ready to begin serving, stepped up to Robert, "Your lordship—"

Robert turned to him immediately, "Gracious! Carson, I should have asked you to bring the staff up for the announcement."

"So I may share the excellent news downstairs, milord?"

"You may," Robert said. "We will discuss the move as well as hiring back additional staff for the house tomorrow with Mr. Crawley, here, yourself and Mrs. Hughes."

"Certainly, milord."

Robert added, "And you can also announce a raise in wages to the staff."

Tom grinned, happy to have won that battle.

"Thank you, milord, that is very generous."

"Thank Mr. Branson," Robert said smiling over at Tom. "He made it happen."

"Is this what you were working on in the library yesterday, Mr. Branson?" Sybil asked.

"It was."

Sybil grinned in response, inwardly looking forward to sharing the tale with Gwen.

"So we're indulging in socialism now, are we?" Violet asked.

"Certainly not, mama," Robert said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be silly."

"A fair wage is hardly socialism, your ladyship," Tom spoke up. "Or do you disagree with the notion that we should share in the good times with those who have shared in the bad with us?"

Violet narrowed her eyes at him, as if sizing him up. Finally she said, "An eloquently stated question to which there is no good answer except no," reluctantly conceding the point to Tom but doing so with a smile. She looked over at Cora and nodded slightly, as if relenting to her the earlier point that Tom was the man for the job on the entail.

Cora lifted her glass. "Indeed, very well said, Mr. Branson. Cheers to you both."

The rest of the family joined in her toast and dinner proceeded in the celebratory tone in which Robert had started it. Tom and Matthew felt welcomed and appreciated by people they had, only days before, believed completely alien to themselves. Isobel was beaming proudly and feeling a lump in her throat brought on by the wish that Reginald—and Claire, who at that moment was chatting quietly with Ivy in her small sitting room—could see them now.

* * *

After dinner, when the ladies moved to the drawing room, Tom excused himself to Robert and Matthew, who were continuing their ongoing discussion about the restoration of Downton Abbey, and stole away to the library.

He made it back to the drawing room after about ten minutes, just as Robert and Matthew entered, but he didn't bother to sit or start conversation. Isobel, feeling tired, had asked if they could head home early, and so the whole group made their way to the entrance hall to say their goodbyes.

Sybil was disappointed not to have more time to talk with Tom, but as she walked to the entrance hall, she felt him slip, discretely and unnoticed by anyone else, a small scrap of paper into her hand. She looked over at him as he did so, but he winked at her at said nothing, making her blush and grateful for the low lighting. Not wanting to draw attention to what he had given her, she slipped the paper into her glove to look at when she was alone in her room.

The visiting parties said their goodbyes and headed out to the waiting motors.

Violet, finding herself next to Matthew, ventured a word to him. "Will you be happy remaining at Crawley House when your investment is at Downton."

Matthew smiled. "We will. Downton may be my home eventually, but I see no reason to keep the family away until then."

Violet sighed. "We are all grateful, even Mary. She was quiet tonight, but I know she's been rather sharp with you."

"I doubt cousin Mary and I are destined to be close friends, but she'll be happier home at Downton, perhaps. As for her attitude regarding the situation, I don't blame her. Her father's home and her mother's fortune are to be passed to me. It's very harsh."

Violet, watching Tom as he helped Isobel aboard, asked, "What would you say if the entail was set aside in Mary's favor?"

"I should try to accept it with as good a grace as I could muster."

The answer satisfied Violet. Now, it was just a matter of putting the issue to the test.

* * *

Later that night, after Anna—sadly for Sybil, not Gwen—had come up to help her out of her clothes and into bed, Sybil took a deep breath and finally opened the note Tom had given her.

_Wherever I am told I cannot go, that is where I want most to be. Back wall, third bookcase column from the left, second shelf from the bottom, seventh book from the right._

Sybil stoop up from her bed and opened her door quietly. Confident that the rest of her family was in for the night, she tiptoed her way to the library. Once there, she followed his instructions. The book was "A Vindication of the Rights of Women: with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects by Mary Wollstonecraft." Sybil hugged it to her chest, giddy and grateful to him for having unearthed such a treasure for her.

As she stood from where she'd crouched to reach the book, she noticed her father's ledger and her shoulders drooped. Did she dare sign it out and risk his discovering this new area of interest and meet with his disapproval? She walked over to it and opened it slowly, trying to make a decision. Upon seeing the most recent entry, she let out a laugh. It was this very book, checked out by T. Branson. He'd thought of everything.

Sybil ran back to her room and set herself down on her bed for a long night of reading.

In another bed, not so very far away, Tom was lying awake, thinking about the new course his life was on and wondering whether it would ever have to veer very far away from hers.


	11. Violet's Request

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on the morning of Sybil's birthday and includes Violet going to see Tom about fighting the entail. In my chronology we're between series one, episodes two and three. On the show, Violet doesn't ask Matthew to review the entail until episode four, after the Pamuk/Napier visit, so I moved it up.
> 
> Also, a small detail: In the first season, Matthew makes reference to getting off the train once on seeing Edith in Downton village presumably after he's finished work for the day, which I took to mean that since he doesn't have a car, he gets to his law practice in Ripon by riding his bike to the Downton train station, then taking a very short train ride to Ripon and then walking from the station to his office. Same holds true in this story. When he, Tom and Isobel go to Downton Place/Abbey, Pratt comes to pick them up. Violet, who still lives in the Dowager house in Downton Village in this story, has her own chauffeur.

In the days that followed the announcement that the family would return to Downton Abbey, the house was a flurry of activity.

In seeming contrast, however, Sybil developed a habit of sleeping so late that Anna or Gwen had to wake her to ensure she did not miss breakfast. Both of her parents knew of and indulged Sybil's penchant for reading and smiled at her bleary eyed state on the occasional morning when she walked into the small dining room long after her sisters, but if either noticed the increased frequency with which she'd overslept this particular week, they did not say. They remained ignorant as to her current subject of interest.

It was attributable, of course, to her staying up hours into the night reading and, more to the point, thinking about what Tom had given her to read—Miss Wollstonecraft's treatise on women's rights. Normally, the act of reading lulled Sybil to sleep an hour or two after she'd settled into bed with the book she happened to be reading, but in this case, reading kept her awake, roiling her thoughts in such a way as to make sleep nigh impossible. Long after she'd put Miss Wollestonecraft's book down, Sybil would contemplate what it all meant and how it explained her own life and the life of her sisters.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the treatment of women at the hands of men who saw them merely as adornments and not as wholly formed humans of intellect and strength, and went on to discuss the weakening of the character of women as a result of being taught not to support one another but to compete for the affections of these men, Sybil thought of her sisters, the manner in which Patrick played them against one another seeming to Sybil more obvious than ever. _Had he ever loved either one of them?_ There was affection, sure, but only the type of affection that spoke to, as Miss Wollstonecraft would say, the superficiality of the pleasantries of courtship that focus on beauty that will fade, not moral fiber and mind and spirit. _No_ , Sybil thought, _Patrick could not have loved them, for true love would have persuaded him to honor the sisterly bond between them and to treat them with the honesty and respect they were due_.

When Miss Wollstonecraft's discussed the schooling, or lack thereof, of women, lambasting the men who considered her sex too weak for an appropriate education and who without irony pointed to the lack of knowledge of the world among women as the very reason to keep them in ignorance, Sybil considered again why she was not sent to school. Why was it considered improper for a young girl of her class to be sent to school? If propriety, in this case, was an instrument in the suppression of knowledge, how else was it applied to ill purpose in other facets of her life?

The book, the reading and re-reading of it—for she'd gone over it more than once—all of it challenged Sybil in a way that made her approaching birthday loom larger on her horizon. One year closer to adulthood, Sybil was now more eager than ever to live a full life, one that went well beyond what might be expected of her.

So it was that on the actual morning of her birthday, Sybil awoke early and with purpose. She dressed herself and sat down to copy her favorite passages of the book into her diary.

_I have turned over various books written on the subject of education, and patiently observed the conduct of parents and the management of schools; but what has been the result?-a profound conviction that the neglected education of my fellow-creatures is the grand source of the misery I deplore, and that women, in particular, are rendered weak and wretched by a variety of concurring causes, originating from one hasty conclusion. The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove that their minds are not in a healthy state; for, like the flowers which are planted in too rich a soil, strength and usefulness are sacrificed to beauty; and the flaunting leaves, after having pleased a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded on the stalk, long before the season when they ought to have arrived at maturity. One cause of this barren blooming I attribute to a false system of education, gathered from the books written on this subject by men who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than affectionate wives and rational mothers; and the understanding of the sex has been so hobbled by this specious homage, that the civilised women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect._

…

_My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone. I earnestly wish to point out in what true dignity and human happiness consists. I wish to persuade women to endeavour to acquire strength, both of mind and body, and to convince them that the soft phrases, susceptibility of heart, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of taste, are almost synonymous with epithets of weakness, and that those beings who are only the objects of pity, and that kind of love which has been termed its sister, will soon become objects of contempt._

…

_Dismissing, then, those pretty feminine phrases, which the men condescendingly use to soften our slavish dependence, and despising that weak elegancy of mind, exquisite sensibility, and sweet docility of manners, supposed to be the sexual characteristics of the weaker vessel, I wish to show that elegance is inferior to virtue, that the first object of laudable ambition is to obtain a character as a human being, regardless of the distinction of sex. . . ._

She was on the last sentence when Gwen came in.

"Milady, you're up!"

Sybil smiled. "I can hardly believe it myself given how I've been this week, but I was feeling inspired." Sybil finished writing and stood to see that Gwen was holding a small package.

With a bright smile, Gwen stepped forward to hand it to Sybil. "Happy birthday."

"Gwen, please don't tell me you spent your hard-earned money on me!"

"I didn't. I, um . . . well, I made it myself," Gwen said, wringing her hands, now nervous as to how her humble gift would be received.

Sybil opened the paper carefully and found a small piece of fabric embroidered with blue harebells and Sybil's initials.

"It's a bookmark," Gwen offered quietly, "since you like to read so much."

Sybil turned it over gently in her hands then looked up to her friend and, closing the gap between them in three quick steps, puller her into a hug. The gesture took the young housemaid quite by surprise. Gwen knew that Lady Sybil would call herself her friend, but earlier in the week, Gwen had been forced to wonder as to the nature of what that meant to each of them.

The servants had been once again ruing the day a middle class man had been made heir. Her ladyship walked in to hear choice words from her maid, Miss O'Brien ("If anyone thinks I'm going to pull my fur lock and curtsey to this nobody from nowhere—"), and quickly reprimanded her, the lot of them, really, regarding their talk about the Reginald Crawleys. In addressing O'Brien, she had used the word "friend," and upon her departure, a chastened O'Brien had bristled at the term.

"Friends? Who does she think she's fooling. We're not friends."

"No?" Anna responded.

"No, and you're not friends with the girls neither. We're servants you and me, and they pay us to do as we're told, that's all."

Gwen, sitting across from them at the table, stood with everyone when Mrs. Hughes ordered the end of tea and the return to work. But O'Brien's words had stayed with Gwen.

She didn't question Lady Sybil the way someone as mean spirited as O'Brien questioned everyone, but Gwen knew that there was a line separating them. Lady Sybil's generosity of spirit chose not to acknowledge that line, but that did not mean it did not exist—and occasionally, Gwen ran into a reminder of it.

Still, all of that was forgotten, at least for the moment, as the two shared a hug.

"I love it! Thank you, Gwen," Sybil said pulling away.

"I'm glad." Gwen blushed. "I best get to tidying up."

Sybil walked back to her desk and slid the bookmark into her diary.

"Are you looking forward to the festivities this evening?" Gwen asked her pulled the sheets on the bed.

Sybil turned back to Gwen. "I am rather, though I wish mama had kept it just to family."

"Has she invited many others?"

"Just Lord Merton and his family, the Greys. They have always been very kind, don't get me wrong, but Lady Merton is a bit too eager to make a match."

Gwen smiled. "With you and her son, you mean?"

"Yes. Larry's nice enough, but you well know marriage is hardly the top issue on my mind."

"Now that you're in your last year before you come out, milady, I imagine mothers of sons acquainted with the family will only get more anxious," Gwen said with a knowing smile.

Sybil sighed. "I wish they'd all just let things run their course naturally. The sorry state of Mary and Edith's relationship should be proof that nothing good comes of all this scheming."

Gwen watched Sybil as she walked over to her window and looked out. Gwen had not been at the house when Lady Mary had been presented to society and had little memory of the same for Lady Edith, but Gwen imagined them both welcoming the prospect with much more eagerness than Lady Sybil was likely to.

"Have you spoken with Mr. Branson since you read the book he recommended?"

Gwen smiled at how Sybil brightened at the mention of Mr. Branson's name and guessed that if _his_ mother were plotting their marriage, she'd be less likely to meet with Sybil's disapproval.

"I haven't. The two times they've come to dinner this week papa has monopolized him, so we haven't had the opportunity for much beyond pleasantries. On the other hand, the delay has given me a chance to organize my thoughts on the book."

"You said it was about women's rights?"

"It is, and, oh Gwen, it's so marvelously argued. To have a brain like Miss Wollstonecraft and the fortitude to use it for such a purpose!"

Gwen smiled. "So you enjoyed reading the book, I gather?"

"Very much. It was quite eye-opening, but in a good way. Miss Wollstonecraft would very much approve of your efforts to improve yourself."

"Glad to hear it. I've just about finished the course. Now comes the hardest part."

Sybil walked over to Gwen and took her hands. "Don't fret. You'll find a secretarial job—I know you will."

Gwen wasn't so sure, and the closer she got to actually having to look for one, the more nervous she became. "What I'm most worried about at the moment is the move, if I'm honest."

"Why is that?" Sybil asked.

"The typewriter box is so heavy, it'll be hard to transport back to the big house without someone suspecting."

"I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps we should transfer it back to my room for the move."

"I'll need to finish my last lesson, but once it's sent, I think that may be the best course—if it's not too much to ask, milady."

"Of course not. I reckon it will be easier to bring it down the attic stairs than up."

The two giggled at the memory of their efforts to take the heavy device, under cover of night, from Sybil's room, past the sleeping quarters of Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and O'Brien and into the room Gwen shared with Anna.

"It'll all be worth it when you're working as a secretary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Not wanting to dwell on what the future might bring, Gwen brought the subject back to Mr. Branson.

"Will Mr. Branson be coming this evening with Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Matthew for your birthday? Perhaps you'll have your chance to talk with him then."

Sybil smiled. "I hope so."

* * *

Walking down to the kitchen after breakfast to say goodbye to his mother before heading to the train for work, Tom couldn't help but snicker at Moseley's "harrumph" in his direction as they passed each other in the hall.

Matthew had been right. "The heir" having been cajoled into submission with help from Robert, Moseley had set his sights on Tom to accept him as his valet. And while Moseley's efforts to get Tom to follow suit had been amusing to start, he was starting to become a nuisance.

Tom passed Ivy as she tidied up the kitchen from breakfast and heard her whisper, "She's in a right mood this morning, sir."

"Thanks for the warning," Tom said with a smile.

Sure enough, Claire was rummaging through her cupboard with annoyance and frustration dripping from her every move. She turned her head, hearing him come up behind her, and continued with her task with a sigh. "Four years and that girl still doesn't know how to store flour properly. I come looking for the sugar and tip it over because the lid's off, making a mess. We've lost one week's worth!"

Tom smiled. "Aunt Isobel has said you could hire a proper kitchen maid. Ivy is a housemaid, and she's got plenty to do as it is."

"We don't need a kitchen maid. She just needs to do as she's told."

"It _is_ a bigger house she's minding now. There's more for her to do."

Claire turned and crossed her arms. "Quite rich coming from someone who refuses the help he's already got."

Tom rolled his eyes, getting increasingly irritated. "Please, not you too."

"What exactly do you gain from keeping Mr. Moseley from doing his job—other than making him cross, which Ivy and I then have to deal with, I mean."

With that, the dam holding back Tom's temper broke.

"He's got no business taking his sour mood out on you. I've told him repeatedly, I have no use for him. If he has such a problem with me, maybe he should look for another job—or better yet another line of work! Something that's actually useful to the world and not simply meant to keep fecking aristocrats ensconced on their high and mighty perch!"

Now, it was Claire's turn to roll her eyes. "Are you quite finished?" She asked pointedly.

Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He knew it was wrong to curse in front of his mother and to force her to bear the brunt of his ire, but if Moseley was making her life difficult just because Tom was standing his ground as a proud member of the middle class, Tom wouldn't stand for it. "I don't need a valet, and he doesn't need to burden you with his absurd insistence otherwise."

"Believe it or not I don't care whether you let Mr. Moseley so much as open a door for you every morning. You're a grown man, and I trust you to make appropriate decisions as to your comportment."

"Thank you, I—"

"However," Claire interrupted, "I will not have you judge a man's line of work."

"What work? Dressing and undressing men as if they were children?"

"All right, then, I'll suggest he give his notice!" Claire exclaimed. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Never mind the loyalty he's paid Mrs. Crawley by abiding by her wishes to treat you like _her_ son, even though you belong to me, and not going and blabbing gossip about it all at the local pub! Because you best believe that the great majority of people in service are so unbearably proud, they would have done just that! Never mind that this is the work his father did! Never mind he took it because he had no choice! Or have you forgotten that not everyone gets the luxury of deciding whether they're a doctor or a solicitor or even a bloody shop keeper!"

Tom sighed contritely, pushed his hands into his pockets and looked down to the floor.

Claire walked up to him and pulled his chin with her hands so he was looking at her. "Tommy, you have three gifts, your heart, your smarts and the ticket to a life in which you could use both to their full potential—two you were born with and the third was given to you. You say you don't want a valet because you don't want the trappings of a better life to change you, but will you consider that the close-minded rejection of what comes with that life can change you too? Because no son of mine would ever judge a man for simply trying to do his job."

"Are _you_ quite finished?" Tom, duly humbled, said with a mirthless laugh.

Claired sighed. "Mr. Moseley is supposed to help you. If dressing you is not the way, then think of something else. Something _useful_. But something. He deserves that—and so do you. You've earned it."

Tom's smirk turned into a full smile. "What would I do without you?"

Claire smiled back. "Get a bit lost every now and again, but you'd find your way eventually."

"I doubt that."

"Oh, you'd be just fine. So long as you find a girl who's not afraid to put you in your place when you need it."

* * *

Tom spent the train ride to Ripon and the walk to the office thinking about his mother's reprimand.

Back in Manchester, in the two years since he'd returned after finishing his degree, his had been an easy and uneventful existence. He was earning a good income running his own practice alongside his oldest and closest friend. He'd moved out of the family house and into his own flat. He still shared his meals with the Crawleys on most days. And there was his mother's not so subtle campaign to ensure his were not the hands of a gentleman, with her asking him over almost ever weekend to fix this or move that. The time he had that was his, he'd spend at the mechanic shop down the street from his flat. He'd made friends with the owner, who, in return for some free legal advice, had agreed to teach Tom how to care for a motor—the one indulgence that Tom could not resist and indeed had been saving up for since his return from university in Dublin. Yes, life in Manchester had been simple, good, and with no valet and his antiquated proprieties to bother him.

But Manchester was no longer his home, and Tom couldn't deny now that the change in Matthew's fortunes had had a major effect on his as well. He hadn't foreseen the extent to which that would be true the day Matthew walked into their office with that fated letter. Tom did not regret having agreed to join him in Yorkshire. Tom would always be willing to do anything for Isobel and Matthew, just as they had done everything for him. They were his family, and with his mother agreeing to move with them, there had been little left in Manchester to stay behind for. There was also a very small part of him that, back then, had been dissatisfied with the very simplicity he was now nostalgic for. But despite that desire for more, he hadn't realized until this morning, how unprepared he had been for the torrent of change that the move brought and to face it unyielding and obstinately was not the way of the modern man he wanted to be. His mother had been right.

_Isn't she always_ , he thought with a smile.

If he wanted to see the world change and grow in a positive direction, he'd have to learn to do so himself.

Besides, the move to Yorkshire hadn't been all bad. As loath as he was to admit it, given Moseley's constant hovering, he enjoyed living with the family again. His new job—tedious as it was to be someone's employee—paid him more than he'd made on his own. He enjoyed the challenge of helping Matthew turn the fiefdom that had been the foundering Grantham estate into a profitable venture that played a positive, more equitable role in the fortunes of the county. In spite of himself, he enjoyed his burgeoning friendship with Lord Grantham.

And, of course, there was the young lady.

Sybil.

_Lady_ Sybil.

She likely did not yet, given her youth, but eventually she would be expected to make use of a lady's maid. If he was so adamant in his rejection of a valet's services, would he accept a future wife who employed the equivalent? Could he allow himself to develop feelings for a woman whose position represented everything he believed himself to be against? Was he ready to give up on the idea that the woman best suited to him would be a working woman?

Tom laughed at himself, realizing that the answer to each question was no longer a clear cut "No," not if Sybil was the woman in question. He had indulged what he initially thought would be a passing fancy, but she was too beautiful, and had proven too curious, too engaging, too interesting, too every adjective under the sun for any of the feelings in him—inspired by merely two private conversations, the promise of more and a long series of glances across the dinner table at Downton Place—to be fleeting.

* * *

Tom hadn't been at work more than two hours when one of the stewards came into his office to announce a visitor.

"Someone to see you, Mr. Branson."

Without looking up, Tom responded, "There's nothing in my diary."

"It's Lady Grantham."

Tom's head jerked up with a start. _What could she want with me?_

He'd shed his jacket upon entering, as was his custom, so he quickly stood to put it back on.

Hearing his visitor step in, Tom began, "Lady Grantham, to what do I owe—" but, having expected to see Cora, he stopped short seeing instead that it was Violet. If the pope himself had stepped in, Tom would have been less surprised.

"Well, I hope I'm not a disappointment," she said in her usual pert manner.

Tom, not knowing what to say, merely pointed her to the chair in front of his desk, then sat down himself.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"I am, your ladyship."

"Oh, let's dispense with that, shall we, Tom?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are like family to Matthew and Isobel, and they are family to us. Robert is fond of you, despite your unusual political persuasions. I see no reason to keep up with formalities, especially once you've done what I'm about to ask."

"So what should I call you?"

"Cousin Violet will do."

Tom scratched his head, still in a bit of shock he was having this conversation.

"What? Do you believe me so inflexible that I cannot welcome a middle class solicitor into the circle of my family?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all."

"It's good to have friends of all persuasions, if the revolution ever does come."

Tom laughed. "I'll be sure to spare you from the guillotine."

Violet smiled in spite of herself. "Now, as to why I'm here. I'd like you to review my husband's will."

"You mean you want me to try to break the entail?"

"I want you to look into whether there is some recourse for Mary to have an inheritance. I know Matthew is like a brother to you, and he seems a good man. I'll pay him the compliment that he does not wish to inherit just because nobody's investigated properly."

Tom sighed. "No, but—"

"Nor can Mary accuse you of making trouble when your close friend will suffer most from a discovery."

"But won't that be the very reason she will doubt my efficacy?"

"I trust you. That will be enough for her."

"If I may play devil's advocate, may I ask why?"

"Cora believes that your conviction on behalf of women will call you to act on our behalf. I agree. I know you will remain true to Matthew. That assures me you will adhere to the law. It is the only manner in which you may be faithful to all parties."

"I have to tell him I'm doing this."

"And you should."

Tom thought for a moment. "You're right that Matthew doesn't wish to benefit at Mary's expense from an ignorance of the law—"

"Putting it bluntly," Violet interjected again, "do you think Robert has thrown in the towel prematurely?"

As she was speaking Violet shifted, and the chair she was sitting on gave way.

"Good heavens! What am I sitting on!?"

Tom smiled. "A swivel chair."

"Another modern brainwave?"

"Not very modern. They were invented by Thomas Jefferson."

"Why does every day involve a fight with an American," Violet said with a sigh. "A hero of yours, no doubt."

Tom shrugged. "Yes and no."

"Oh?"

"He wrote eloquently on the cause of freedom and helped lead a revolution that created the model for all modern democracies, but the man himself was a slave owner."

"The human experience is nothing if not a never-ending exercise in contradiction."

"I suppose that's true. Shall I fetch a different chair?"

"No, no. I'm a good sailor."

"As to what you're asking me. It will depend on the exact terms of the entail and of the deed of gift when Lady Grantham—that is, your daughter in law—allowed for her money to be transferred to the estate."

"That is all I ask, to understand the exact terms."

"I shall do my best."

"Thank you, Tom." Violet stood to leave, and Tom walked with her back outside. She was just about to step in the motor when Tom called out.

"Cousin Violet?"

Violet turned back to face him. "Yes?"

Tom smiled. "Just trying it out."

Violet rolled her eyes and climbed into the back seat. Tom stepped up to the motor and added, "Thank you for your trust in me."

"You're part of the family now," Violet responded. "You'll find that we Crawleys stick together."


	12. A true and honest and equal friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there is any confusion, "Merton" is to the Grey family what "Grantham" is to the Crawley family.

 

From the moment each of them was born, Mary, Edith and Sybil Crawley manifested such distinct personalities, Cora sometimes joked to Robert that they weren't the parents of three sisters, but rather of three only children. That the girls had two parents in common seemed sometimes only something of a coincidence. Their mother said this not because Mary, Edith and Sybil were all spoiled, but because each required a different approach when it came to parenting.

Mary was practically a fully formed adult from birth and refused to be babied, coddled or condescended to in anyway. Edith had been a shy child and less inclined to speak up for herself than her more precocious older sister, so it took more hands-on contact to bring her out of her shell. Sybil was something of a mix of the two. She was independent like Mary, but where Mary prided herself on strict adherence to the rules—indeed, casting herself as the guardian of them among the sisters—Sybil questioned them at every turn. Like Edith, Sybil was disinclined to be the center of attention, but her forgiving, deferential nature didn't stem from a lack of self-esteem as it did with Edith, but rather an open-minded willingness to believe the best of everyone around her. Cora might have feared this as naiveté in her youngest daughter if she hadn't, over the years, proven herself to be something of an old soul.

And just as each sister was of a distinct temperament, each pair—Mary and Edith, Mary and Sybil and Edith and Sybil—shared a unique dynamic. There was, in fact, but one tradition that brought them together in an affectionate sisterly bond that all of them enjoyed in equal measure. It happened three times a year, on each of their birthdays.

How they spent the day was always much the same. After luncheon, they'd take a walk together, sometimes in silence, sometimes in a flurry of chatter, depending always on the mood and inclination of the one being celebrated. After tea, the two whose birthday it wasn't would come to the bedroom of the third so she could open their gifts. They'd spend the rest of the early evening there, where they'd get dressed and ready together for whatever festivities, big or small, had been planned. Disagreements didn't matter on this day. And for that reason alone, since Edith's debut two years prior, when the rivalry between her and Mary began to reach a fever pitch, their birthdays were Sybil's three favorite days of the year.

In the year of 1912, for Edith's birthday in February and Mary's in March—when any topic that could veer back to Cousin Patrick was best avoided—the sisters had talked about what their first spring at Downton Place would be like, the new fashions coming from Paris, whether New York was as interesting as the novels of Edith Wharton made it out to be (according to Mary, whose memories of their mother's home were freshest, the answer was an emphatic "no"), whether their father would agree to return to Duneagle this year after declining the invitation the previous summer and whether they would ever have the chance to step into Downton Abbey again.

On the late August afternoon of Sybil's seventeenth birthday, now all of them knowing that in short order Downton Abbey would be their home again, Mary, Edith and Sybil contemplated how very acutely everything had changed in a matter of a few months. Everything they had talked about when Edith had turned 20 and later, when Mary turned 22, seemed like trivia from a different life altogether. Patrick and James were dead, replaced by a cousin and heir who, however benign his intentions, had set the girls' world spinning, none of them knowing how or when the dizzying pace of change would slow. The sisters were facing an unknown future that, by virtue of their return to Downton, was going to take a jaunt through the past.

"Do you suppose it will feel the same as before?" Sybil asked her sisters.

She was standing by the window of her bedroom looking out, while Edith, sitting on Sybil's bed, paged through a magazine and Mary sat at the chair in front of the vanity, idly rummaging through Sybil's jewelry box.

"I haven't thought about it much," Edith confessed. "It doesn't seem real. I think subconsciously I'm not accepting it's happening until we're actually there again."

"It won't be the same," Mary said with a sigh. "It's not really ours anymore, is it? It's just on loan from you know who."

"I don't know why you insist on being so cross with Cousin Matthew," Sybil said. "Besides, I thought you of all people would happy to be going back."

"I am. I just don't want to feel beholden to him."

Edith snorted. "And why in the world would you feel that. It's papa's debt he's settled, not yours."

Mary thought carefully about what to say that would explain her deeply mixed emotions. "I want to enjoy the days we have left there, but how can I know how long that will be? We'll all be married soon enough. It just seems like we'll be on borrowed time at Downton, and I don't happen to like the lender—whatever mama or papa say about what a supposedly nice person he is. Matthew hasn't proven himself to be anything to us."

Sybil turned to look at Mary with a knowing smile. "Maybe he's waiting for _you_ to make an ovation of friendship."

Mary rolled her eyes. "He'll be waiting a long time."

Sybil and Edith looked at one another, holding back their amusement. Mary's snobbery could be grating, but it was a trait so ingrained into her character that even they couldn't help but be amused, even endeared, by it sometimes.

"Who exactly is going to be in charge of running the house, Matthew or papa?" Edith asked.

"It shall be a dual monarchy," Mary answered.

"That sounds ominous," Sybil said.

"If it's trouble, papa has only brought it on himself," Mary said. "To think that months ago these people were virtually strangers, and now he must share power with them, and I must marry the son."

"You won't marry him though, will you?" Edith asked.

"What, marry a sea monster?" Mary retorted.

Sybil moved from the window to the bed and sat on the corner opposite Edith. "A sea monster? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you know the story of Andromeda and Perseus?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "What could Greek mythology possibly have to do with you and poor Cousin Matthew?"

"Andromeda is the daughter of King Cepheus, and she's kidnapped by a sea monster sent by Poseidon and chained to a rock as a sacrifice until Perseus comes to her rescue."

Sybil smirked at Mary. "So you've cast yourself as the wronged princess who will be held against her will at Cousin Matthew's mercy until your Perseus comes to ask papa permission to marry you?"

"When you put it in such prosaic terms, it's not nearly so romantic as I imagine it," Mary responded.

Sybil and Edith exchanged glances and fell into a fit of laughter on the bed. Mary rolled her eyes at her sisters' lack of decorum, but couldn't keep a smile from forming on her face.

After a few minutes, Sybil collected herself and said with a sigh. "We shouldn't laugh at Cousin Matthew's expense. That's so unkind."

"Well, even if Mary won't have him, he must marry someone," Edith said looking at no one in particular.

Mary arched her eyebrows. "Edith, what are you thinking?"

"You know, I don't dislike him as much as you do."

"Perhaps you don't dislike him at all," Mary said airily.

"Perhaps I don't."

Wide-eyed at the sudden admission, Sybil looked to Mary. _Would this match, at least, proceed in peace between them?_

Mary's gaze shifted from Sybil to Edith, whose eyes were still on the magazine on her lap, then turned back to the jewelry box. "Well, it's nothing to me. I've bigger fish to fry."

"What fish?" Sybil asked.

"Are we talking about 'E.N.'?" Edith asked, before Mary had a chance to respond to Sybil.

"How do you know that?" Mary asked, turning back to Edith. "Have you been poking around in my things?"

"Of course not!"

Sybil, as always, was frustrated at being the last to know. "Come on, who is he? It's not fair if you both know."

Mary took a deep breath and finally answered. "You won't be any the wiser, but his name is Evelyn Napier."

"The honorable Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome," Edith said, saluting playfully with her hand.

"Who wants an old sea monster when they can have Perseus?" Mary posed, sending her sisters into giggles again.

* * *

About an hour after she'd left Tom's office, Violet had sent her chauffeur back with her husband's papers, and he'd spent the rest of the day immersed in the minutiae of the late Lord Grantham's last will and testament. He emerged from his office in the late afternoon not having found anything that would secure what Violet and her daughter in law were after on Mary's behalf—at least not easily. In fact, his only true accomplishment with regard to the matter was managing to keep his temper as he learned how a man who'd not worked a day in his life could so easily dispense with money that wasn't his.

He knew little of Cora's background beyond the fact that she was American, but he couldn't imagine any parents who would have allowed a daughter to sign away so much without thought as to the implications. Well, he _could_ imagine them. But that was something else that set him apart from the upper classes. He would not be so cavalier as to take the security of those he loved for granted. Tom knew that a son would have rendered moot the question to which he was now seeking an answer, but the randomness of nature seemed to be playing a joke on the Crawley family. And now it was up to him to explain the punch line to "Cousin Violet," who, he thought with a snicker, was unlikely to appreciate his sense of humor.

Having arrived back home in time for tea with Isobel and Matthew, Tom explained to them both what she had asked him to do. Isobel was as surprised and amused as Tom had been at the uppity old woman's sudden wish to be on more familiar terms with Tom, but Isobel was glad to see that the family was taking steps to embrace him as one of theirs. Matthew, for his part, did not begrudge Tom his willingness to cooperate and actually thought it a useful exercise. His plans for the estate were underway but still in their infancy. It wouldn't hurt to be assured that all legal matters had been settled—and the expectations of a certain eldest daughter either brought to bear or dismissed once and for all—before anything was done that couldn't be undone.

Matthew had thought, on the evening of the announcement of the family's return to Downton Abbey, that even if they never became very close, the tension between him and Mary might dissipate once she knew she'd return to the place she so longed to be. But while the haughty barbs had stopped, they'd been replaced by no words at all. He sometimes wondered if not speaking to him was her way of sending the message that she absolutely did not want to marry him—as she'd presupposed he'd want to do on the day they met.

_She certainly doesn't have to worry on that score,_ Matthew thought.

If it was a lingering lack of certainty as to her situation that kept Mary so closed off from her newly discovered cousin, then Tom would settle the question to a point that would allow everyone to move on. At least, that's what Matthew hoped. He knew she'd cast him as villain in her story, even if it was a not a role he'd ever intended to play.

* * *

With the hour to leave for Downton Place for Sybil's birthday dinner approaching, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had headed upstairs to change.

Tom was about to put on his bowtie when he heard the door of Matthew's room open. And indeed, when he looked out into the hall, there was Moseley, who, upon seeing Tom, turned to him with a hopeful air.

"Can I help with something, sir?"

Tom couldn't keep himself from smiling. "No—well, yes—actually I wanted to speak to you about something, but as it takes the whole of my concentration to get this blasted thing on straight and we are short on time, I will need your help"—Tom lifted up his tie and extended his hand to give it to Moseley, before quickly pulling it back—"but only just this once."

Moseley took it with a smile and followed Tom into his room, closing the door behind him.

"What did you want to discuss, sir?" Moseley asked as he waited for Tom to lift up his collar.

Tom moved in front of Moseley and lifted his chin so the valet could get to work on the tie. "I know you want me to make use of your services, and while I think I've made my stance on being dressed by someone else quite clear, I don't want you to feel like I'm keeping you from doing your job, such as it is. I want to find a suitable solution, but may I ask something first?"

"Certainly, sir."

"What do you like about being a valet? I recognize it's rather a condescending question, but I don't mean for it to be. I'm genuinely curious to know if your job is enjoyable to you."

Moseley stepped back, having finished with the tie. "Well, sir, my father was butler to a gentleman who was an assistant to the foreign secretary, and he used to say that people in service do the little things so that those they serve can do the big things."

Tom considered Moseley's words. "I'm not sure how that answers my question."

"Have you heard of Simon Bolivar, sir?" Moseley asked.

"The Spaniard who liberated South America?"

"Yes." Moseley smiled, a bit bashfully. "I enjoy studying history when I have some time to spare. Mr. Bolivar wore elaborate coats with dozens of buttons that ran on either side of his chest, up to his neck. He employed several people to button them for him, and he would admonish them to do so slowly when he was in a hurry. It sounds contradictory, but taking care to dress him carefully, his men ensured that they wouldn't waste his time, precious as it was, by making a mistake and forcing him to wait if they made an error and had to do it all over again."

"Seeing as I'm not liberating colonies from their monarchical oppressors, I wouldn't say my time is as precious as his was."

"But that doesn't mean it's not valuable to you, sir. The truth is very few men accomplish truly great things—at least on the level of the likes of Simon Bolivar, but many more accomplish good things. I'm not suggesting they couldn't have done so without servants, only that their servants may derive a sense of purpose from serving them. Mrs. Branson would agree, I think, that people in our line of work don't often have much to feel exceptionally proud of, so we find it where we can."

Tom looked at Moseley seriously for a long moment. "Since you mention my mother, do you really have no problem working for the son of a housekeeper?"

"I know that there are men in service who take great pride in the titles and lineage of the dukes and earls and what have you who employ them. I prefer to focus on a man's character. I find it helps me sleep at night."

"So as to my original question?"

"There is tedium to every profession, including yours I imagine, so speaking to a butler's daily tasks, some are more pleasant than others. But if I have respect for the people who employ me and if I feel useful to them, then all tasks done on their behalf are worth doing. By which I mean, I do enjoy serving you and Mr. Crawley, and hope to do so for a long time."

Tom smiled. "I appreciate that. I maintain that I can dress myself, but there is something I'd like you to do for me."

"Is there, now?" Moseley asked, his expression brightening.

"I'd like you to iron the newspapers. Lord Grantham suggested it needed doing after he saw one of my handkerchiefs."

"I wondered how they came to be so filthy."

"It's the ink. I read several of them at breakfast, as you know. With the ink still wet, it comes off on my hands. I've spent more on new handkerchiefs in the last two years than on anything else, if you can believe it."

"So this is not a luxury, then."

"No, it's a cost-saving measure—a much needed one."

Moseley smiled. "Anything else?"

"I impose on my dear mam to mend my shirts even when she's got so much to do herself because I'm rubbish with a needle and thread."

"I can do that for her."

"I think that is all."

"Very good, sir." Moseley bowed and moved to leave the room. He was at the door when Tom called out to him.

"Is there something I can do for _you_ , Moseley?"

Moseley thought for a few seconds. "I imagine his lordship has a fine library."

"He does. Would you like me to borrow something on your behalf?"

Moseley nodded. "I would, sir, if it's not an unreasonable request."

"Not at all. Perhaps something on the Spanish conquistadors, if you like the tales of the New World."

"I would enjoy that very much."

* * *

Lord and Lady Merton, their son Mr. Larry Grey, Lady Rosamund Painswick and the rest of the Crawley family were gathered in the drawing room when Isobel, Matthew and Tom arrived at Downton Place. Carson led them there and announced their arrival, prompting Robert, who'd been standing in his usual spot by the hearth, to walk over to welcome them. Cora did likewise. After exchanging pleasantries, she took Isobel by the arm to the far end of the room to meet Rosamund, who was chatting with her nieces, Mary and Edith. Robert motioned to Matthew and Tom to follow him so he could introduce his old friend to the two young men to whom he owed his return to Downton and in whose hands the future of the estate rested.

Sybil, meanwhile, was sitting on the sofa flanked by Larry and Violet, with Lady Merton across from them in an armchair. Sybil had been anticipating Tom's arrival since she'd walked into the drawing room, hoping they'd have a chance to talk before dinner, but the Greys had descended on her from the moment they'd walked in, not leaving her side and not really letting her get a word in edgewise. As she watched Tom greet her parents, she knew there was no delicate way she could extricate herself from the current conversation without making it plainly obvious to whom she wished to give her attention. She'd not yet had to endure teasing from her family regarding interest in a young man, and realizing that her nearing debut would make that a more frequent topic, she didn't want to give them any ammunition that would make things awkward with Tom, whose friendship she hoped could rise above all that silliness.

Tom did manage to glance in her direction on his way across the room behind Robert, and catching his eye, Sybil smiled brightly—so brightly, in fact, that the young man sitting next to her couldn't help but notice.

"So who are your new friends, Sybil?" Larry asked her quietly.

"Cousin Matthew is papa's heir as you know. Cousin Isobel is his mother, and Mr. Branson is their distant relation, I believe. Cousin Isobel raised him as her son."

"What's his parentage?"

"Papa said his father was from Ireland, which is why he returned there for his studies and speaks with an Irish accent, but other than that I don't know."

Larry looked over to the group of men talking at the hearth. "So there's a mick in our midst. I must say I never thought I'd see the day the Earl of Grantham would—"

Larry stopped short seeing Sybil's face, which had hardened in anger at the slur.

Larry smirked. "It's just an expression, Sybil."

"I know how it's intended."

"Ireland is a messy business. No lady like you should concern herself with it."

"I'm perfectly capable of deciding what I concern myself with," Sybil responded, turning away from Larry to Violet and Lady Merton, who had been discussing a mutual friend. Sybil heard Larry snort behind her and then felt him stand, presumably to join the men's conversation.

"And are they enjoying New York?" Sybil heard her grandmother ask Lady Merton.

"I believe so, though dear Elinor did say that their son has been entertaining some unsettling ideas."

Violet sighed. "It's to be expected. It's an unsettling place, after all."

"Oh, granny, New York really can't be so unpleasant," Sybil piped in. "Grandmama makes her home there."

"That woman's endorsement of it is proof enough of my point."

Sybil couldn't help but laugh. Violet's disapproval of her other grandmother, Martha, was always amusing to watch in action.

"Well, it seems William has decided to send his young daughter to a school newly opened by a Miss Maria Chapin," Lady Merton said. "Elinor has met her and says she's bit of a radical. It seems she supports women having the vote. But William won't hear of hiring a proper governess."

"A school run by a suffragette, that sounds rather wonderful!" Sybil said.

"Wonderful? Wonderfully ghastly!" Violet exclaimed.

"How can you say that granny? I would have enjoyed going to a real school."

"Sybil, darling, why would you want to go to a real school?" Violet asked. "You're not a doctor's daughter."

"But nobody learns anything from a governess, apart from French and how to curtsey."

Violet was indignant. "What else do you need?!"

"Well, there's—"

"Were you thinking of a career in banking?" Violet said shaking her head.

"No, but it is a noble profession," Sybil said not backing down.

"Things are different in America," Cora said, having just walked over from where she'd left Isobel chatting with Rosamund. She took a seat in the spot on the sofa Larry had vacated.

"I know," Violet responded. "They live in wigwams."

"And when they come out of them they go to school," Cora said, causing Sybil to snicker.

"Oh, Violet, don't fret," Lady Merton said. "Sybil's just anxious for her life to start. Her season will be here before you know it, and all silly thoughts will give way to what really matters in due course. Won't they, dear?" This last she said turning to Sybil with a patronizing smile.

Sybil didn't want to stir an argument so early in the evening, but also didn't want her position misunderstood. "I'm sure William doesn't consider the education of his daughter a silly subject."

But Lady Merton continued, turning back to Violet and not bothering to acknowledge what Sybil had said. "I wonder that girls now wait until they're eighteen," she said. "It makes these last years difficult, particularly so for someone like Sybil who has seen her sisters go before her and who already has such a friend as Larry with whom to look forward to sharing her time."

It took some effort for Sybil not to groan aloud. It would have been one thing if she enjoyed Larry's company, as she had when they were very young children and the novelty of having a boy to play with amused her to no end. But he'd grown into such an unpleasant person, Sybil couldn't imagine herself choosing but to avoid him at all costs.

"I'm never anxious for my girls to grow up too fast," Sybil heard her mother say, giving Sybil a warm smile. Sybil wondered if her thoughts about Larry had been evident in her expression.

"And I think it's especially important at this age," Cora added, "to spend time with as many different friends as possible. Making new ones is so much harder the older we get."

Lady Merton's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I don't mean to suggest Sybil shouldn't make new friends, Cora, only that—"

Whatever Lady Merton intended to say was left a mystery as Carson announced that dinner had been served. Without another word, the party began moving toward the large dining room, and having allowed those who were older and of higher rank to proceed ahead of her, Sybil happily found herself walking next to Tom.

"Do you suppose that dinner has been served for a while now and that Carson was merely waiting until an especially awkward moment in the conversation, when someone might need rescuing, to announce it?" He asked cheekily.

Sybil laughed. "Now that you mention it, he does seem to appear at the most opportune moments. But if that is his approach, I must say he waits a bit too long sometimes. I can think of several of conversations he shouldn't have allowed to occur at all."

"Well, there's only so much he can do. I'm afraid the upper classes cannot always be saved from themselves."

"Do you ever need rescuing?"

"From an unpleasant conversation? No, but that's only because I prefer it when conversations become unpleasant."

"Why?"

"I find that politeness keeps people from saying what they really mean."

"But what if what they say is not to your liking?"

"Then I'll know their true character and be able to decide whether or not we can be friends."

Sybil smiled. "Does that mean you'd prefer me to be impolite with you?"

"I'd like your honesty, in whatever disposition you wish to package it."

"That's what I'd like as well."

The two looked at each other and smiled. When they got to the table, he stopped to allow her to walk in front of him to her seat. Just as she walked past him, he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "Happy birthday."

The shivers his voice sent down her spine could be felt all through dinner.

Tom sat down between Cora and Rosamund, across the table, lengthwise, from where Sybil was between Larry and her father.

After everyone was seated, Robert offered a toast to his youngest daughter, which was followed by several anecdotes shared with affection by him, with one from Lord Merton, about Sybil as a young child. Sybil accepted the attention and gentle teasing with aplomb.

It was clear to Tom, even before Robert had mentioned that Lord Merton was Mary's godfather when they'd been introduced, that the Greys were very close friends of the Crawleys. And on overhearing Lady Merton's words to Sybil about her debut it was clear that at least some among the two families harbored hopes of a union between the Grey son and the youngest Crawley daughter.

Tom hadn't taken the time to consider whether Sybil had many male acquaintances. But seeing Larry on the sofa next to her upon arrival and seeing in Larry's eyes what felt like a possessive look after Tom and Sybil had exchanged smiles, it occurred to Tom that the line of young men who would jump at the opportunity to be near her was a long one— _of course, it was_ —and that her romantic future was one on which too many people would feel entitled to have an opinion. He felt a fool for not arriving at those conclusions until now.

When Matthew had told Tom about the comment Mary had made, believing him out of earshot, about his possible intention to choose one of the Crawley daughters as his wife, Matthew said he found her words ridiculous. Tom disagreed. Sure, Lady Mary had her airs about her, but what she'd said regarding men's expectations of women like her, Edith and Sybil—women who were brought up for no purpose but to marry well—was painfully on point. Just because Matthew would not presume to impose himself on one of them didn't mean that the world, _their_ world, wasn't full of men who would and did. It took very little time for Tom to realize that Larry Grey was one of these men.

When Larry had walked over to the hearth, he introduced himself to Matthew and made something of a show of ignoring Tom, launching into a long discourse to Matthew about life in Yorkshire and acting as if there wasn't another person standing right next to him. Robert and Lord Merton were standing a bit apart from the young men at that point and took no notice. Matthew threw Tom several puzzled looks in reference to Larry's behavior, wondering what disparaging assumption Larry had made about Tom that he hadn't also made about Matthew. Tom was too amused by Larry's act to try to break it by speaking to him directly.

Looking across the table at Larry now, as Larry tried to engage Sybil in conversation while Carson and Thomas took the serving plates around, she seemed disengaged, bored even.

Tom thought back to when she'd told him no one had ever asked her what her interests were. Thinking about it again, Tom felt a bit heartbroken on her behalf. In what Tom had seen of her, Sybil didn't seem unhappy, but it was clear that she wanted more than what her current life was giving her. Certainly, she deserved more.

_Nothing against the institution of marriage,_ Tom thought, _but Sybil Crawley is not meant to be merely someone's wife._

Tom glanced at Sybil's mother, sitting next to him on his right, and wondered the extent to which Cora, an American, had submitted to aristocratic ritual and the extent to which she would be willing to dismiss it on her daughters' behalf. He could only guess as to Cora's state of mind when she had married Robert and had been asked to sign over a fortune to people who, given the finances of the Grantham estate at the time, desperately needed it but still thought themselves her superiors in every way.

Cora caught Tom looking at her as she began to tuck into the first course and smiled at him. "Violet tells me you've taken up our cause."

"I have. In fact, I spent most of the day on it."

"Any promising leads?"

"I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet—"

Tom noticed Cora's eyes widening upon hearing him mention Violet in such familiar terms. He smiled and said, "She asked me to call her that."

"You should count yourself lucky. It usually takes years for Violet to warm up to people."

"I think it was part of her plan to convince me to help you."

"Well, if you are family to Isobel and Matthew, then you are to us," Cora said smiling warmly. "I'll be very insulted if you call Violet 'cousin' but not me."

"All right," Tom said with a smile.

"Now, about the case itself, let's take a moment after dinner to discuss it."

* * *

When the time came for the women to take their leave after dinner, Tom excused himself also and met Cora in the library.

Once they were both seated, Tom began.

"As I mentioned earlier, I haven't spoken with Cousin Violet since her visit this morning, but I have looked through every source. I'm afraid I haven't found much on which to base a challenge—at least not one that would be clear cut and simple to execute."

"What have you found?"

"There are three elements to the matter: the title, the estate, and the money. Nothing can be done about the title. On that matter, the law is clear. Matthew will be the next earl regardless of his financial status at the time of succession. In a way, that is probably the reason your father-in-law did what he did."

"I don't understand."

"I believe he wanted to assure the position of whoever bore the title. The estate, the second piece of the puzzle, does that to an extent, as the primary employer in the county, if you include both the full service staff and the tenant farms. But it's also a financial drain—at least it was, the way it was run in the past. The estate tied to the title by itself, without financial backing would put the family seat at risk. That's where the third piece, your fortune, comes in. If someone with no money were to inherit the title and estate, including Downton Abbey, he couldn't afford to do anything with it. The only recourse would be to sell. The late Lord Grantham likely knew this, which is why he took your money—"

"Tom, I gave it—"

"With due respect, Cousin Cora, he _took_ your money to save Downton at the time of your marriage. The deed of gift you signed legally turned everything over to him and meant the money was no longer yours. It was his to do with it as he pleased. So he tied it to the estate and the title to guarantee—at least as far as he could foresee—that whoever inherited the title after his son would also be a rich, landowner. I'm sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it was a very close-minded and selfish thing to do."

Cora smiled, sadly. "He thought he was doing it for his future grandson."

Tom let out a humorless laugh. "Do you really think there is anyone in this world who wouldn't trust a mother to leave what's hers to her own children?"

Cora furrowed her brow, so Tom went on, "Don't you see? If what is left of that money were still yours, you would leave it to your _daughters_. He wanted it to go to the heir, regardless of whether the heir was your son. That's why he asked you to turn it over to him. The funny thing is that if he were here now I believe even he would admit that it was done to preserve the dignity of the earldom. And he likely wouldn't apologize for it, not to an American and an Irishman."

"I suppose you think me foolish for signing it all over to him in the first place."

"I believe the saying is, 'We are all fools in love.' "

"And I was," Cora said with a smile.

"Was?"

"Am."

"I ask because the messy way to fight the entail would be to challenge the deed of gift, say you were not in your right mind when you signed it, and ask for what's left of your money to be returned to you."

"But Robert is the steward of the trust now. Wouldn't I be challenging him directly if we did that?"

"You would. That's why I call it a messy option."

Cora sighed. "Well, you were good to look into it for us."

"So that's where we're leaving it, then?"

"I can't challenge Robert, not like this. It's time to move forward, though I am frustrated that what I did then means I can't help my daughters now." Cora paused for a moment, then added. "I suppose your daughters will be better cared for."

Tom smiled. "Better taught to care for themselves."

Cora looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. When she looked back at Tom, there were tears welling in her eyes.

Tom put his hand over hers. "It wasn't your fault. Your father-in-law took advantage of your ignorance of the law and your assumption that he was acting in the best interest of your children, and not his own mercenary ends."

Cora swiped her cheek with her hand. "You don't like us very much, do you?"

"I like you very much, indeed," Tom said, warmly. "I dislike the social class system in this country. It teaches women and the poor not to question laws and etiquette that classify one group of people above all others with the intent to keep everyone else down."

"How do you reconcile that with helping Matthew with the estate?"

"I owe everything to Matthew and Aunt Isobel—and Uncle Reginald. They have exceedingly good hearts, otherwise they would never have . . ."

Tom stopped realizing what he was about to say.

"Never would have what, Tom?"

He took a deep breath. "They would never have made me part of their family."

Tom waited for Cora to ask the question. _Who is your real family? Where are you from? Who are your parents?_ He was prepared to answer truthfully.

But she didn't ask. 

Instead she took the hand he'd offered her into both of hers and squeezed it. "I'm glad that they did, and that they brought you to us."

Tom smiled. "Matthew will be a good steward of the estate, and he will run in it a way that benefits more than just those who live upstairs in the big house. That's our hope anyway."

Cora smiled. "And mine."

After a moment, she let go of his hand and stood. "We should head back to the party."

"Go ahead. I promised our butler Moseley I would borrow a book for him, if that's all right with you."

"Of course, but don't take too long."

"I won't."

"And don't worry about Violet. I'll tell her it's over."

After she'd gone, Tom sat back down for a moment. He'd come close to telling Cora and now that he was alone again, he wished he had. Who his mother was had never been a secret, but it was starting to feel like one. If he didn't tell someone, and soon, he wouldn't be able to deny that he was concealing it.

Pushing that thought out of his mind for the moment, he stood and walked over to the bookcase in which history books were shelved. He was about to take one when he heard a voice behind him.

"There you are!"

It was Sybil.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, walking over to where he was standing.

"I was talking to your mother. She'd asked me to review the entail one more time to ensure it really couldn't be undone."

"And the verdict?"

Tom shook his head.

"And why are you still here? You're not hiding from me are you?" Sybil asked, a playful expression on her face. "I'd like to discuss the book, and I've been waiting all day to do so."

"What did—"

Sybil grabbed Tom's arm suddenly. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Both of them stood quietly for a moment, and sure enough, down the hall, the sound of someone calling Sybil could be heard moving closer.

"It's Larry. Let's hide!"

Sybil took Tom by the hand and ran toward her reading alcove at the far corner of the library.

Once inside, she stood by the entryway and listened as Larry walked in to the library called out her name once and walked back out.

Sybil let out a sigh of relief. She looked up at Tom and started laughing. "You must think me very rude to have done that."

"I trust he earned it," he said, clearly amused. "What is he to you, if you don't mind the question?"

Sybil thought for a minute. "We played together as children, all the games Mary and Edith wouldn't play with me. He was quite fun, then, but he's grown positively insufferable. I suppose he's a friend, though not much of one. His mother certainly wishes we were more." At that last point, Sybil rolled her eyes.

Tom looked around the small cozy sitting area. "This is a handy getaway spot."

"I like to come in here to read. It's how I get away from the world."

Tom smiled at her. Sybil looked into his eyes for a long moment before the intensity of his stare became a bit overwhelming. When she looked down, she realized she was still holding his hand. Seeing her notice, he looked down and saw it too, and sensing a bit of nervousness in her, he let go. Sybil smiled and sat down on the window seat.

"So what did you think of it?" He asked.

"The book? Oh, it was terrific. So well written and intelligent and stirring and—I have so many thoughts in my head and no way to organize them, which is terrible seeing as her arguments came together so easily."

"I doubt she would say the writing of it was easy, but I agree that it is a very well thought out treatise."

"I could only dream of ever having so many interesting things to say." She stopped on seeing his wide grin. "What?"

"I told you you'd have no trouble understanding it."

"Well, I think that's because it felt like she was speaking directly to me."

"That's the mark of a good author, but don't sell yourself short. It's not an easy read by any means. Did any of it surprise you?"

"I was surprised by how often habits and customs that are well meaning aren't really. What I mean to say is, so much of what men do for women is done so things are easier for us, so as not to burden our more feeble compositions, but Miss Wollstonecraft argued that we are weaker precisely because these very rules do not allow us to experience the world as we should, as equal human beings."

"And what did you think about that?"

Sybil thought for a moment, with a serious and challenging expression on her face. "It made me want to break every rule there is."

And just like that the concern Tom had had just an hour or so before about Sybil being forced to be merely someone's wife evaporated. Because the woman before him now was ready to make of herself whatever she wanted.

"There was something else," she added quietly.

"What's that?"

"Before dinner, when you said you wanted my honesty, and I told you I wanted the same from you . . . "

"Yes."

"Miss Wollstonecraft wrote about how the rituals of courtship diminish women because they turn us into objects of desire rather than real people."

Tom's heart rate started to speed up. Sybil looked down at her hands and continued, "Well, I was thinking . . . I would like for you to see me as . . . um, not as someone you'd like to court, but as a true and equal friend." She paused, then asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "Would that be all right?"

His response matched hers in volume. "You deserve nothing less."

Tom looked at her for a long moment then took a deep breath. "You asked me how it was that I came to support women's rights," he said. "It's because of the plight of women who have very little and, if they are unmarried or widowed, have little recourse for help. When my father died, I was a year old, and my mother had almost nothing with which to support me."

"So she sought help from Cousin Matthew's parents?"

"Yes."

Sybil furrowed her brow. "Where is she now?"

Tom smiled. "Having a cup of tea in her sitting room, I imagine."

"Do you wish you could see her?"

"I see her everyday."

Sybil looked puzzled. "How?"

"She's Matthew and Aunt Isobel's housekeeper."

Sybil's eyes widened in shock.

"The Crawleys raised me as their middle class son, but the truth is that I am the child of a servant. I'm telling you because I do want to be your friend, and a true and honest and equal friendship, as I, too, hope ours can be, shouldn't begin under false pretenses."

Sybil's expression of shock turned into a soft smile, one for which Tom was deeply grateful. "Thank you for trusting me with your secret."

"It's not a secret," he said. "I don't mean for it to be, anyway. If you wanted to tell your family, you could."

"It's your truth to share not mine, but I won't think less of you if you don't. I promise."

As they looked at one another, Tom grew in Sybil's estimation for the gentleman he clearly was and the gentleman he and those who loved him had made him into.

Finally, she stood and said, "I suppose we should go back."

"Go ahead."

"Aren't you coming?"

Tom smiled. "I'll follow in a minute. I believe that if your wish is to avoid Mr. Grey's attentions, it's best that we not enter the parlor together."

Sybil looked confused for a moment, but then his implication—that Larry would be jealous—became clear and a hint of blush appeared on her cheeks. She turned to go, but then at the alcove entryway she stopped and faced Tom again.

"What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."

Before he had a chance to respond, she was gone.


	13. Gwen's Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Series one, episode three action begins in this chapter and Gwen features heavily. There's lots of repurposed dialogue. I've spaced out the timeline of the canon events to fit in the parts of this story that are my invention and to make it flow like an at least somewhat cohesive narrative.

The day after Sybil's birthday, preparations for the move back to Downton Abbey began in earnest. The next day, the family would be leaving for London, where they would stay for a week while the belongings they would be taking back to the big house could be moved, and while Carson and Mrs. Hughes completed the hiring of additional help.

For just about everyone in the house, thoughts were on a mix of the future and the past—what life at Downton would be like after a year away, whether its former glory would ever be recaptured, and whether the friends who had been left behind would be there upon the return to a full staff.

The exception was Sybil, who was at her desk writing in her diary early that morning, mind firmly on the present and on Downton Place.

Sybil was sure she would be the only member of the family—and the only person among the staff, as well—who would miss living there. And she would miss it dearly. How could she not? The last year of her life had been a formative one, and everything she'd learned, every thought, every feeling had emerged from how much less restricted and how much more herself she had felt there.

Sybil was not sad, exactly, to be returning to a place she knew made her parents and sisters so happy to call home, but she couldn't help but acknowledge to herself that as a child, she sometimes found the sheer size of Downton Abbey oppressive and unwelcoming. To the young, imaginative girl she'd been once, it was like an endless maze of rooms—with one of an army of servants, most of them perfect strangers to her, lurking around every corner—at the end of which a monster was waiting to swallow her whole. The house, along with all the things in it, belonged to her family. But no part of it felt hers. Had the family never left, Sybil's attitude would have changed as she matured. Indeed, like her sisters, she would have grown to love the house, accepting in some measure—with adjustments to her more progressive frame of mind, of course—the lifestyle and the attitude the grand house demanded of its inhabitants.

But the family _had_ left. And they'd come to _this_ house, which was smaller, but not lesser, not to Sybil. She considered cozy and inviting what her family saw only as cramped. She found new freedoms and opportunities to be her own person in the reduction of servants, where her family saw only inconveniences. She treasured the solitude that stemmed from the absence of visitors and guests, where her family saw the judgment and subsequent loneliness that comes from misfortune. The rift in perspective was attributed by her parents and sisters to Sybil's youth, a rebellious spirit that would be tamed by age and time. But she knew it to be more than that. Because thus far, her rebellions—if one could even call them that—were rebellions of thought, not action. They were not bouts of petty misbehavior in service to a restless spirit or a desire to upset the balance for the sake of raising the ire of those around her. She was a rebel anxious for a cause. Life at Downton Place had taught her that, and it was a lesson for which she, now at the end of her time there, was grateful. So while Downton Place would always have a special place in her heart, she did not dread her return to Downton Abbey because she knew herself now in a way she did not before.

Having finished putting her thoughts to paper, which she'd done while still in her nightdress, Sybil stood to change. As she was going through her wardrobe, Anna came into the room.

"Oh, good morning, milady. I just came in to open the curtains. I expected you'd be sleeping in after your birthday dinner last night."

Sybil smiled. "I want to make the most of our last full day here."

With the curtains open, Anna took a tentative step toward Sybil, who was stepping into her corset with the lacings in front. "May I help, milady?

"No," Sybil said. "I've grown quite adept at this. Watch." Sybil pulled the corset up and began tightening the lacings carefully, with it still on backwards. Once she was satisfied it was tight enough to wear but still sufficiently loose to shift into place, she carefully pulled on one side of it to bring the front forward. Then, she tugged her slip downward to straighten it and gave the corset's lacings, now behind her, one more pull before tying them off.

Finished, she turned to Anna. "Ta da!"

Anna smiled. "Very nicely done, though I'm afraid if her ladyship had walked in I might have been sacked for not stepping in to do it for you."

"I would have happily explained that you have greater tasks with which to concern yourself," Sybil said laughing.

"Well, since you're up, I'll start with the fireplace now. That is if you don't mind, milady."

"Not at all," Sybil said, now buttoning the blouse she'd chosen for the day. "Gwen usually does the curtains in my room. Is she not feeling well today?"

"She's fine. Took the morning to go into the village. I believe she was going to the post office."

Sybil, of course, knew Gwen was not sick but wanted to ask as to her whereabouts without drawing suspicion. Gwen had wanted to finish the final lesson of her correspondence course before she and Sybil snuck the typewriter back to Sybil's room ahead of the move. But with only one night left to do it, Sybil wanted to ensure Gwen had found the time for the task. If Gwen was at the post office, as Anna reported, then she had completed the lesson, and tonight would be the night.

"I trust your birthday was enjoyable," Anna said as Sybil walked over to her vanity to brush her hair.

"It was, thank you."

"Did you receive any especially exciting gifts?"

"They were all very nice, though none I'd call _exciting_."

"I would expect at this age, you're receiving mostly jewels, right? I seem to remember that in the year before Lady Mary and Lady Edith had their coming out."

Sybil turned to Anna, who was finishing up with the fire. "You guessed exactly right! There was only one gift that was not a new necklace or earrings."

"And what was that?"

"A book about plant life in Yorkshire called _Flora Eboracensis_ from Cousins Isobel and Matthew and Mr. Branson. I'd expressed an interest in botany in conversation."

"A thoughtful gift, then, and appropriate given your love of reading."

Sybil smiled. "It was very thoughtful. The jewels were nice too, and I'm sure I'll make use of them when my season comes around." Sybil turned back to the mirror and sighed. "Anna?"

"Yes, milady."

"I'm afraid I'm still a bit rubbish at this part." With a grimace, she pointed to the messy bun she'd pulled her hair into.

Anna smiled widely and walked behind her. "Are you looking forward to it, your season, I mean?" Anna asked as she began working Sybil's hair into a neater presentation.

"I am. It's still more than a year away, though, so at this point the anticipation is more out of curiosity about the whole thing than a desire to find a husband. I suppose that makes me odd."

"I would say it makes you who you are, and somewhere out there is a man who will want to marry you just for that."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you."

Once Anna had finished with her hair, Sybil left her to finish in her room, taking the book Isobel, Matthew and Tom had given her with her. Seeing nobody else down for breakfast yet, she proceeded to the library to drop the book off in her alcove for reading later in the morning.

As she stepped inside, the memories of her encounter with Tom there the evening before came back to her and she sat down in the window seat with a happy sigh. Sybil laughed at herself, recollecting how brazenly she had pulled Tom into the alcove and thrown off all convention when it came to what others might consider appropriately feminine behavior, first asking him to treat her as his equal and then, boldest of all, declaring friendship only the beginning of what she hoped was to come between them.

_No doubt granny would have blanched at those last words,_ Sybil thought. _But what other words were there to say?_

To Sybil, since she'd first laid eyes on him outside Crawley House, Tom had proven himself a delightfully and determinedly radical thinker, sincere in his convictions. But even so, when she had asked that he give her the honesty of a friend instead of the flattery of an admirer, she hadn't been sure how he'd respond. So when he answered her by offering the single biggest truth he had to give, though his intent had not been to elevate himself significantly in her esteem, in allowing her to see him and know him as he really was, that had been the outcome. Nobody had ever leveled with Sybil, trusted her, so completely before. She knew immediately, of course, and with some shame, that the revelation would be disconcerting to some in her family. But that knowledge did not change things for her—and as she stood to walk out of the alcove she realized that she needed him to know that. And so she'd said the words.

_"What I said before about us being friends. I didn't mean that I don't want something else in future."_

Bold. Too bold, perhaps. But it had felt good to say. Better than any feeling she'd felt in the whole of her seventeen years.

The thrill of it coursed through her again as she relived the moment in her mind. Sybil hugged the book she was holding to her chest, not doubting that _he_ had chosen it for her even though it had been presented as being from the whole family. It was not likely to be as enthralling as the last he'd suggested, but she figured that he'd selected it under the assumption that she'd be opening presents in front of everyone—as indeed had been the case.

Sybil opened the book on her lap now and had just begun to leaf through it when she noticed an envelope stuck to one of the pages. She carefully pried it off and opened it. Inside there was a slip of paper with what was now familiar handwriting.

_Where your last hunt ended, a new treasure awaits._

Leaving the botany book on the window seat, Sybil quickly made her way over to the shelf where she'd found A Vindication of the Rights of Women. She stuck her hand behind the row of books and let out a happy yelp when she felt something there. She pulled out another book and immediately opened the front cover, where she found another note waiting for her.

_Lady Sybil,_

_Nonfiction takes us through the known, and fiction through the unknown. I suggested you venture through nonfiction for your education, but in truth both journeys matter if life is to be lived fully. This work was written by the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I hope it proves sufficiently unconventional. Happy birthday._

_Your friend, T. Branson_

Sybil turned to the title page and read the title aloud, "Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus." She smiled and looking at the note again, ran her fingers over his writing.

After a moment, she walked back over to the alcove and set this book down where she'd left the other and folded both notes into the pocket of her skirt. Looking around the tiny space, she suddenly felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She would miss this room, but now she had another treasured memory of it to cherish, and two books to lose herself in on this last day she'd be able to enjoy it.

* * *

Later that morning, as Gwen was making her way back to her room, having successfully sent off her final lesson, she couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. Running into Mr. Bates at the post office had set her a bit on edge. There was no real reason for it, of course. There was nothing wrong with her wishing to post something.

_What nefarious thing would Mr. Bates have to suspect?_

Deep down, though, she knew that with the last lesson now out of her hands, the idea of being a secretary was no longer a pipe dream but a real possibility that was within her grasp, so long as she had the courage to reach out for it. For it was one thing to take lessons in secret. It would be quite another to put herself out there, to ask someone to take a chance on her, and—her biggest fear of all—to reveal her aspirations to her colleagues and current employers, people who bristled at that word, _aspiration_. Nefarious, indeed.

Gwen was so lost in thought as she walked into her room that she was startled to find Anna there, standing on a chair by their cupboard and trying to move a box. _That_ box. Suddenly, the fear that had been pooling in her stomach since she'd seen Mr. Bates started coursing wildly through the whole of her.

"What are you doing?" She asked Anna anxiously.

Anna sighed, clearly exasperated. "If you must know, I'm trying to bring my things down from the top of the cupboard to make life easier for packing this week." She climbed down from the chair and looked at Gwen squarely in the eyes with a challenging expression. "So what's in it then?"

"What?" Gwen was wracking her brain for a way to deflect attention.

"That bleeding packing case that weighs a ton, that's what!"

"Can't you just leave it?"

"No, I can't, and you'll tell me right now!"

As she quietly climbed onto the chair, Gwen felt tears welling in her eyes, unable to hold back the feeling that her dreams were bursting before her eyes. Carefully, she lifted the case, brought it over to the table by her bed and opened it. She turned to Anna, whose face softened into a smile. Gwen let out a grateful sigh of relief, remembering that she did not have to fear judgment in Anna.

Anna stepped up to the typewriter and put her fingers over the keys. "It's a typewriter, yes?"

Gwen nodded.

"How much did it cost?"

"Every penny I'd saved. Al—almost."

"And is this the mystery lover?"

Gwen smiled. "Well, I've been taking a correspondence course in typing and shorthand. That's what was in the envelopes."

"Are you any good?"

"Yes. I am, actually."

Anna was about to say something else when the door opened. Both women instinctively moved to hide the typewriter behind them. It was Miss O'Brien. Gwen felt her fear begin to pulse through her all over again.

The lady's maid, wearing her usual stern expression, looked between Anna and Gwen for several moments before speaking.

"Her ladyship wants the full skirt Lady Mary never wears. A seamstress is going to fit it to Lady Sybil, but I can't find it."

"I'll come in a minute," Anna responded, hoping it would be enough to send the nosy O'Brien off, but knowing it wouldn't be.

"They're waiting now," was O'Brien's impatient response.

"One minute," Anna insisted. "I'm just changing my cap and apron."

O'Brien looked at them both again, and tilted her head as if to try to spy what they were guarding, but eventually gave up and left. Anna moved to close the door.

Turning back to Gwen, she asked, "Have you told anyone?"

"Only Lady Sybil. She's been very supportive. She helped me get it in here."

"How exactly did you manage it?"

"The parcel was first sent to Lady Sybil. She made an excuse to his lordship as to its contents. Then, she helped me bring it up to the attic one night several months ago."

"And I slept through it all?" Anna asked with an incredulous smile on her face.

Gwen nodded and laughed. "I'd been prepared to tell you, but since you didn't wake I figured I wouldn't burden you with such a secret."

"What do your parents say?"

"Well, I can't tell them till I've got a job. Dad will think I'm a fool to leave a good place, and mum will say I'm getting above myself, but . . . but I don't believe that."

Anna smiled. "Nor do I. And it will mean something to them that you have Lady Sybil's support."

Gwen sighed. "We shall see."

* * *

 Late in the afternoon, walking through the house on her last day as its mistress, Cora smiled to herself as she thought of the varying ways her daughters were responding to this change in their lives. Edith was in her room preoccupied with what clothes she'd take to London and what she would leave in the trunks to be transported to Downton Abbey. Sybil, naturally, had holed herself up with a book in her favorite corner of the library, declaring to her mother when Cora had discovered her there that she'd not leave the spot until it was time to change for dinner. Mary, Anna had told Cora, had gone for a walk on the grounds. This was no surprise either. Mary had always been fond of walking about the grounds when her mind felt especially full.

Now knowing, thanks to Tom's diligent work, that the question of the entail had to be put behind them, and eager to ease her eldest daughter's mind regarding what would come next, Cora put on her coat and hat and headed out to look for her.

It didn't take her long to find Mary, seated at a bench on the path leading away from the gardens at the back of the house. As she approached, Cora saw that Mary was reading a letter.

"Anything interesting?"

Mary turned to see her mother, whom she'd heard approach. Mary supposed she could be coy about the letter, hold the possibilities it presented close to her chest, but at this stage, what would be the point? Her mother and grandmother were going to meddle regardless.

"Not particularly," Mary answered. "It's from Evelyn Napier. You met him at the Delta Fields last November at Doncaster Races."

Cora perked up at the mention of the young man she remembered as sweet and handsome. "Is that Lord Branksome's boy?"

"It is."

"Do you like him?" Cora asked quietly, sitting down, not wanting to put Mary off by seeming too eager.

"I don't dislike him."

Cora smiled at her daughter's commitment to stoicism and inscrutability. "And what's he writing about?"

"Oh, nothing much. He's out with the York and Ainsty in November. The meet is at Downton. He knows we will be back by then and wants some tea when he's up there."

"Where's he staying? With friends?"

Mary knew where her answer would lead. "He says he's found a pub that caters for hunting."

"Oh, we can improve on that—he must stay with us at Downton! He can send the horses up early, if he wants. We can ensure the stables are ready."

"He'll know why you're asking him."

Cora widened her eyes every so slightly, hopeful the lie would land softly. "I can't think what you mean. His mother is a friend of mine. She'll be pleased at the idea." It was a silly ruse, but sorely needed. This was the most Mary had ever done on her own behalf, and Cora wanted to prod her forward gently.

Of course, her daughter saw right through it. "Not very pleased," Mary said. "She's dead."

Cora smiled. "All the more reason, then. You can write a note, too, and put it in with mine."

Mary sighed. She'd wanted to tread carefully with Evelyn, know his mind a bit more before making her interest so plain, but she could see now that the battle for subtlety was lost. Her mother would not back down.

"Should I tell him about your friendship with his late mother?"

Cora stood to leave. "I'm sure you of all people can compose a letter to a young man without any help from me."

Cora walked back toward the house hopeful for the first time in a while with regard to Mary's prospects. Mary was a beautiful woman—Cora often thought too beautiful. Patrick had known her all of her life and had grown accustomed to Mary's beauty. He was not intimidated by it. But it was not so with other men. Her first season had been a success, the ones that followed too, but they'd also quietly revealed a chilling truth: the prettiest girl in the room was also at times the loneliest. She did not suspect that had been the reason Mary and Matthew did not get along, but Violet's notion of their union seemed a farfetched one at this point. Neither showed any inclination toward the other, and Cora knew better than to force it—even if Violet and Robert might continue to insist on it.

Cora looked back, and the image of Mary alone on that bench made Cora think of how lonely Mary might have been these past months without the man she'd intended to marry and without the fortune that would have secured another favorable match. Cora wondered briefly what her own life might have been like if the money that Robert had married her for had been taken away from her, as ruthlessly as British law had taken it from Mary. It would have been a different life entirely. The thought scared Cora to her core.

And it was that very emotion—fear—that hid behind the stoic wall Mary had built around her heart. Nobody sensed it in her. _But that_ , Mary thought, _was for the best_.

Cora returned to the house to find Violet in the parlor with Robert. Violet had come, no doubt, to discuss Tom's findings regarding the entail, but that topic would have to wait with Robert present. So Cora proceeded to fill them in about Mary's correspondence with Mr. Napier and her own intention to invite him to Downton Abbey.

"Explain, again, how you managed it." Violet said after a while, still skeptical that Mary herself would be so forward.

"As I said, it's not of my doing," Cora replied. "It's all Mary's own work, but I think we should encourage it."

"Branksome's a dull dog, but I don't suppose that matters," Robert put in.

"Did you know his wife had died?" Cora asked.

"He only ever talks about racing," Robert said with a roll of his eyes.

Violet sighed. "Cora is right. Mary won't take Matthew Crawley, so we'd better get her settled before the bloom is quite gone off the rose."

"Is the family an old one?" Cora asked, not particularly interested in the answer, but knowing that if there was an objection in her mother-in-law's mind it would be on this matter.

Violet, seeing through Cora's question, replied with her usual cheek. "Older than yours I imagine."

"Old enough," Robert confirmed.

"And there's plenty of money," Cora said, knowing this much to be true.

"Oh, really?" Violet asked.

Cora nodded and looked at Robert who said with a hint of impatience in his tone, "Mama, you've already looked him up in the stud books and made inquiries about the fortune, don't pretend otherwise. Are you afraid someone will think you're American if you speak openly?"

"I doubt it'll come to that."

Satisfied that they were all in agreement, Cora asked, "Shall I ring for tea?"

"No, not for me," Robert said. "I'm meeting Cripps at five. I'll see you at dinner."

With that Robert left the two women alone.

Turning back to Violet, Cora noticed a skeptical expression on her face. "You don't seem very pleased."

"I'm pleased. It's not brilliant, but I'm pleased."

"So you don't have a problem with Evelyn Napier?"

"I don't want Robert to use a marriage as an excuse to stop fighting for Mary's inheritance," Violet said finally.

Cora sighed. "It won't make any difference. You know he doesn't have the slightest intention of fighting as it is. The price of saving Downton is to accept Matthew Crawley as his heir."

"What about you?"

"I don't dislike Matthew. In fact, I rather admire him. Him and Tom both."

"Is that sufficient reason to give them your money?"

"First of all, Matthew is getting it, not Tom. And no it isn't sufficient reason, but what recourse do I have?"

"Did Tom not offer an alternative? You spoke on the matter last night, didn't you?"

"Yes, he explained everything, and quite thoroughly. There is a path, but it is one we cannot take."

"Oh?"

"It would create a rift among us, Violet, or specifically between Robert and I. Robert has made his position clear on wanting to move forward with Matthew, and anyway the sum that would go to Mary, diminished as it is, isn't worth the pain it would cause."

"Are you so certain?"

"I am."

Violet rolled her eyes. "And so Downton Abbey will be a middle class man's domain."

Cora was used to Violet's attitude and opinions, but this could not go unremarked upon, not after the way Tom had opened her eyes last night as to the true author of the family's current circumstances and his true motivations.

"Do not blame him, please," she said. "It wasn't Matthew who created this situation it was _your_ husband."

Violet whipped around to Cora, a rebuke was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it. "Then there's nothing more to be said," she said sternly. "Are we going to have tea or not?"

Cora stood to ring the bell, a knowing smile on her face. It wasn't often that Violet held herself back. Cora knew that Violet would never admit her husband had acted wrongly, but having backed away from the argument just now was as much an admission of his guilt as anything Violet would ever do or say. As Cora pulled on the bell, she allowed herself a moment to cherish the victory.

A short while later, Mrs. Hughes brought up the tea. Once both ladies had been served, she stepped up to Cora.

"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Hughes?" Cora asked.

"Well, I hate to trouble you, your ladyship, but there's a bit of a situation downstairs."

"Oh, goodness! What could it be?"

"It's to do with Gwen."

* * *

 On the rare nights she went to bed feeling buoyantly hopeful, usually after a long talk with Lady Sybil, Gwen allowed herself to lie in bed and picture the day she would hand in her notice to Mrs. Hughes. The day she'd tell her that she was leaving for a job as a secretary.

_There is nothing wrong with service,_ Gwen would say. _Simply, it's not for me. I want something else. Not something more, per se, just something else._

Mrs. Hughes would smile kindly and wish her well. There might be some skepticism in her eyes, but Gwen would know it was not ill-intended. Mrs. Hughes had seen her fair share of housemaids come and go, but at the end of the day she would be supportive of Gwen.

That's how Gwen had always pictured it. But that was not what had happened this afternoon.

After she and Anna had sent O'Brien off, Gwen thought that perhaps that would be the end of it. Anna would keep her secret and everything would be as it had been before. But it was not to be. O'Brien had shamelessly broken Gwen's privacy and laid out Gwen's dreams for the rest of the staff to poke at.

As she went about her duties, after that terrible confrontation with everyone, Gwen couldn't shake the image of the typewriter sitting on the dining table in the servants' hall, all of them crowded around it. The memory of it, so fresh in her mind still, made her stomach ache with shame. Her knickers could have been laid out there in the same fashion and she'd not feel worse. What was worse, after all, than your most closely guarded dream, known only to your best friend, being laid bare in that way to be judged by those who would, in turn, feel judged by you for having such a dream, despite you entreaties to the contrary? The way they had all looked at her, some whom she would even call her friends, had made her feel small. And now, even hours later, though she'd gone on with her work as best she could, she felt unable to recover from it.

Knowing it was close to the dinner hour, Gwen made her way to Sybil's room, having asked Anna earlier if she could dress her tonight, needing a friendly shoulder to lean on. Finding the room was empty upon her arrival, Gwen sat on the bed for a moment to collect herself. But alas, being in the room where so many of her dreams had been nurtured had the opposite effect.

Gwen hadn't been there for more than a few minutes, when Anna came in with a basket of Sybil's laundered clothes. Anna was so preoccupied with putting the clothes away, it took her several minutes to realize that Gwen was crying. Anna quickly walked over to her friend and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Gwen? Whatever's the matter?"

The tears Gwen had been trying to hold back became sobs.

"Hey, come on. It's all right." Anna sat down next to Gwen, and began to gently stroke her back in an effort to calm her down.

"What's happened?" It was Mr. Bates, peaking in from the hall. Robert's dinner clothes were draped across his arm. He'd been on his way to Robert's dressing room when he'd heard Gwen's crying.

Both Gwen and Anna turned to the door, where he remained, with a look of concern on his face. "Oh . . . oh, I'm just being silly," Gwen said, now calmer, but still clearly agitated. "You should get that brushed," she said referring to the clothes on Bates' arm.

Bates came into the room and closed the door behind him to give Gwen a bit of privacy. "He won't be up for another half an hour. Now, what is it?"

Gwen sighed, sadly. "Well, I suppose I've just realized that it's not going to happen."

"What isn't?" Bates asked.

"None of it. I'm not going to be a secretary. I'm not going to leave service. I doubt I'll leave here before I'm sixty."

"Hey, what's all this?" Anna exclaimed. "You said you were good at that stuff. What's changed since this morning?"

"Oh, you saw their faces," Gwen said, unable to hold back the torrent of self-pity that had been welling since that dreadful scene in the kitchen. "And they're right. Oh, look at me! I'm the daughter of a farmhand. I'm lucky to be a maid. I was born with nothing, and I'll die with nothing."

"Don't talk like that," Bates said encouragingly. "You can change your life if you want to. Sometimes you have to be hard on yourself, but you can change it completely, I know."

But Gwen could not reply.

Turning to Anna, Bates said. "Take her upstairs. Dry her off."

Anna gently guided Gwen up to their room. Once there, Gwen was calm, but there was a look of utter dejection on her face. "How pathetic am I?" She asked looking at her feet.

Anna grabbed her hands. "Not at all. Forget Miss O'Brien. She just wants everyone to be as sour as she is. Don't let go of this dream, not if it's what you really want."

Gwen sighed, but said nothing.

"All right, now buck up! Go down and wait for Lady Sybil. She'll need changing soon anyway, and she'll offer some encouragement."

"That's because nothing's impossible for their lot. It's different for us."

"That may be true, but if she is your friend, you owe her the truth at least. Mrs. Hughes has told her ladyship, so they'll be talking about it at dinner. Better that she know that."

"I suppose you're right."

But when Sybil finally made it back to her room to change and Gwen filled her in on what had happened, Sybil offered Gwen no encouragement. She was much too angry at O'Brien and much too busy cursing the odious maid for sticking her nose where it didn't belong to take time to offer Gwen comfort. But the truth was, Sybil's ridiculous display of ire, capped by a long rant against women who keep other women down, had been so amusing for Gwen to watch, that it actually did the trick. Gwen still felt a little disheartened, but no longer completely defeated. She was even ready to find her tragic discovery's silver lining.

She said as much to Sybil.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Gwen," Sybil said, still in a huff, "but it will be some time before I can look at her without wanting to—"

Gwen laughed, heartily, before interrupting what was sure to be another diatribe. "Truly, milady, it's fine."

Sybil sighed, and smiled. "Are you sure? I have half a mind to tell mama to give her the sack."

"There's no need for that. To be honest, it feels a bit like a weight's been lifted. I wish it hadn't happened like that, but now that everyone knows, I don't have to hide it, and, well, hiding does suggest there is some shame in what one is doing, and I don't feel that. Not anymore."

"Good, because you shouldn't." Sybil looked at her friend, and she did look happier than she had only a few moments ago. "I suppose this means we won't need to transport it back to my room tonight."

"I'm glad for that. The first time was nerve-wracking enough."

Sybil laughed. "Whereas I was looking forward to one last adventure here."

* * *

 Isobel, Matthew and Tom had been invited over for the second time in as many nights, to help the family mark their last day at Downton Place. Once they'd entered the drawing room to wait for dinner with the family, they were quickly appraised as to the events below stairs. The topic carried over to the dinner table.

"I don't understand," Violet said. "Why—why would she want to be a secretary?"

"She wants a different life," Matthew offered.

"But why?" Violet insisted. "I should far prefer to be a maid in a large and pleasant house than work from dawn till dusk in a cramped and gloomy office. Don't you agree, Carson?"

Carson, who'd been standing by his spot near the head of the table answered, "I do, milady."

Mary rolled her eyes, now growing increasingly tired of the conversation. "Why are we talking about this? What does it matter?"

"It matters that the people that live and work here are content," Cora said.

"I find it curious that you take her initiative as a personal affront," Tom put in.

Robert sighed, but with a smile. "What could you possibly mean, Tom?"

"Well, the young lady seems to want to take her life in a new direction. Cousin Cora and Cousin Violet believe her actions reflect poorly on the family. And I am forced to wonder why you think her wishes have anything to do with you."

"We're her employers," Robert said. "If she is dissatisfied with her job, it _does_ reflect badly on us."

"But why should it? If that dissatisfaction stems not from the job itself but from having been given no alternatives to it. She is perfectly within her rights to wish to do something different with her life, and she has no reason to be ashamed of such a wish. You force shame on her by harping only on how it's all going to affect you, when there's likely dozens available to take up the job once she leaves." Tom cheekily turned to Carson. "Or is a seamless transition impossible in this situation, Carson?"

"Not at all, Mr. Branson," Carson said in the huffy delivery he reserved for the young firebrand.

"Your point is well taken, Tom," Cora said with teasing a smile, then turning to her daughter, added, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't rile up any more of the staff, Sybil. The transition back to Downton is going to be hard enough."

"But we have full confidence in you, Carson," Robert added for the benefit of the butler.

"Thank you, milord."

"I agree with Tom, and I plan to continue to help Gwen if that's what she wants," Sybil said, in response to her mother. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Nothing wrong at all," Isobel said, wanting to support the young lady, knowing she was alone among her immediate family in her opinions. "Surely we must all encourage those less fortunate to improve their lot where they can."

"Not if it isn't in their best interests!" Violet exclaimed, not ready to concede defeat on the topic.

"Isn't the maid a better judge of that than we are?" Isobel retorted.

"What do you say, Cousin Matthew?" Edith spoke up. "Should our housemaid be kept enslaved or forced out into the world?"

"It seems to me, her crime is but to have ambition."

"Ambition can be a dangerous thing," Mary said, surprising Matthew. They were the first words she'd directed to him in some time.

"True, but I see no danger in it here," Matthew responded. "When she's ready to leave, she should be allowed. The law permits it."

"But perhaps the law should not permit it, for the common good," Violet said.

Isobel laughed. "So, you hanker for the days of serfdom."

"I hanker for a simpler world. Is that a crime?"

"Nothing in this world is ever simple," Tom said. "Not if it involves human emotion—and surely you can agree that everything does."

"I suppose you like things to be complicated, don't you, Tom? After all what is the definition of revolution if not messy and needless complication."

"Indeed, Cousin Violet. For me, the messier the better."

The rest of the family laughed as Tom and Violet's banter continued throughout the evening. It was a dinner that Sybil would remember as worthy of the house that hosted it.

* * *

 In the drawing room after dinner, Mary, Sybil and Tom chatted about the family's upcoming trip to London, when Cora called Mary over ( _Bless her_ , Sybil thought) to ask her something about Mr. Napier's upcoming visit to Downton Abbey.

Sybil took the chance to thank Tom for his secret gift.

He grinned, happy that she had discovered it. "I half feared when I hid it that you might not bother opening the first book and not see the note until after you'd left here."

"I didn't discover it until this morning, I admit, but I'd committed to spend my last day here reading in my alcove, and I never leave new books unopened for too long, so I was always going to find it."

"Have you started it?"

"No, I stuck to the botany book today. I'm saving the novel for our train ride to London."

"I have no sense of your tolerance for the macabre, so I hope it doesn't put you off."

"Macabre? I'm now more intrigued than ever!" She said, excitedly.

He laughed at her enthusiasm.

"Thank you, also, for your help at dinner, speaking up for Gwen," she said.

"I'd have spoken up regardless, but I'm more glad to have done it now that I know it was in support of your scheme."

Sybil blushed. "I haven't really done anything except help Gwen sneak the typewriter into the servants quarters. She's done all the work—for her course, I mean."

"It's good of you to encourage her. Given the odds she faces, I doubt Gwen would call that nothing."

"Mama and granny probably wish I'd stay out of it."

"Well, you have me on your side, whatever that's worth to you."

"Very much," Sybil said quietly. Then, her smile growing, she added, "This is terribly wicked of me to say, but I do enjoy seeing how riled up granny gets when she spars with you at the dinner table."

Tom laughed. "I must admit I enjoy it a little too much myself. At Crawley House, Aunt Isobel and I agree too heartily on most things to ever have an entertaining argument. Conversations in which the parties are all of the same mind are not nearly so interesting as ones in which they aren't."

Sybil smiled. "Neither granny nor papa will ever come around to our way of thinking, so there will never be a dull moment when we're back at Downton."

Tom smiled inwardly. _Our._


	14. Coming Home

 

 

**September 1912**

Robert, Cora, Mary, Edith and Sybil had been gone only five days, but their absence was felt keenly by the inhabitants of Crawley House. Neither Isobel, nor Matthew could have guessed how accustomed they had become to seeing their cousins on a regular basis. Tom, gifted with a measure of self-awareness, knew that he would miss seeing Sybil, even in just a week's time, but just how acutely he did surprised him.

Whenever he thought of her, he would picture her hidden away in some corner of her family's London house eagerly turning the pages of the novel he'd given her, and the image would bring a smile to his face. He supposed there were any number of other things she could be doing, but in truth, his assumption was not far off the mark. If he allowed the thought of her to linger for more than a moment, he would go back in his mind to the night of her birthday. The way she so sweetly and innocently asked that he treat her like a real person and an equal, not the voiceless adornment that the likes of Larry Grey no doubt would have her believe was all she was—it completely disarmed and endeared him. She hadn't had to ask, of course. Who in the world could meet Sybil and not want to _know_ her? In Tom's mind, to be captivated by her looks but not be interested in what lay beneath was wasted effort. Beautiful as she was, her brains and moxie made her all the more alluring, and damned if he was going to be the one who would put her on a pedestal to wilt for lack of true life experience.

Sybil's request in some ways felt like a kind of admission as to the treatment she expected from the men she'd known up to this point in her life and the ones who would begin circling her as her debut neared. Perhaps that was why Tom answered her with his own admission. She had asked him to see the whole of her, so how could he not reveal the same of himself? Whatever doubts Isobel and his own mother had put in his mind regarding letting the Robert Crawleys know his background, telling her had been easy. What she'd said next, he supposed, was the reason he was so anxious to see her again. Because if they had something beyond friendship to look forward to in the future, he wanted them to start forging the path toward whatever that future was as soon as possible, regardless of how long it would take to get there.

Tom hadn't told Isobel, Matthew or Claire that Sybil now knew his background, and he wondered whether telling them mattered any more than telling the rest of the Crawleys that he was a servant's son mattered. He was proud of who his parents were, but he also wanted to be his own man, one not tied down by old prejudices, and the more the issue of who knew and who didn't hung out there, the more he felt confined by it—and not in a way he liked.

So when he, Matthew and Isobel had sat down for breakfast on the Saturday morning after Robert and his family headed to London, Tom posed the question.

"Do you suppose I should have said something about myself to the family last week?"

"Said what?" Isobel asked as she buttered her toast.

"About the fact that my mam is the housekeeper here. When we were discussing the housemaid who wants to leave them. That might have been a good time to say something, don't you think?"

Matthew and Isobel looked at each other with surprise.

"I'd assumed you'd chosen not to say anything at all," Matthew said.

"I hadn't really chosen one way or the other," Tom said. "I knew I didn't want to lie, but now that we've gotten to know them and like them, I feel like the sin of omission is just as bad."

Isobel sighed. "Well, you know where I stand on this. It's not their business, and they've been so welcoming to you, why bother bringing it all up now?"

"Because I want to be honest about who I am."

"And who says you haven't been?" Isobel asked. "They haven't asked, which means on some level they don't care. Oh, I suppose Violet might, seeing how old fashioned she is, but honestly, Tom, don't trouble yourself with it. They obviously aren't."

"You don't owe them anything," Matthew said. "If they do ask, you can answer honestly, and if they wonder why you didn't say before say it's because you didn't think it mattered, because it doesn't. And if it does to them, then they'll just have to get over it. You're our family—that's never going to change, regardless of what Cousin Robert and his say."

Tom smiled, humbled by Matthew's unbridled support.

"What brought this on, anyway?" Isobel asked.

Tom looked back and forth between the two and figured there was no point in hiding it. "I've told Lady Sybil."

Isobel almost dropped her fork. "What?! Why?"

"She asked me if I ever wanted the chance to see my mother again, and it seemed wrong not to tell her." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Do you think she'll mention it to the rest of her family?" Matthew asked.

"No," Tom answered. "She said she wouldn't and I believe her."

Isobel smiled. "Such a sweet girl. To think of her helping a young maid to become a secretary only to be chastised by her parents."

Matthew laughed. "They're hiring four new housemaids, a new footman, a new scullery maid and hall boys for the move back to the big house. With the search for a new estate agent as fruitless as it's been for me, I can't help but empathize with the desire not to have to fill yet another vacant position."

"They'll have six housemaids and two footmen?" Tom asked, incredulous. "Just how big is this place?"

"It could house a small country," Isobel said. "Rather excessive, I know, but the architecture is quite beautiful. It really is a marvel to behold."

"Why don't you come with me today?" Matthew asked Tom. "I've been meeting the candidates for the agent position there to make use of the map of the estate stored in the library. It's about time you had a look at it."

"Oh, why not?" Tom said with a shrug of his shoulders. "If I stick around, mam is just going to find something for me to fix."

"Has she shown you her new lamp?" Isobel asked with a smile.

"Yes! She's finally decided to join the twentieth century!" Tom exclaimed with a laugh.

"Not everyone took to electricity right away," Matthew said.

"Cora said Violet was a hold out as well," Isobel said. "Do you wonder if they have anything else in common?"

"Mam and Cousin Violet?" Tom thought for a minute. Then, with a cheeky smile, he said, "They both wish I'd hold my tongue more often."

Matthew and Isobel laughed. Tom heard a snicker behind him, and he turned to see Moseley standing in his usual place holding back a smile.

"Something to add on the matter, Moseley."

"Not at all, sir."

"Well, we should get going," Matthew said, standing. "Mother, what is your day like?"

"I'll be going to the hospital. Violet is determined to keep modernity out of there too, so I must stand as its only defender."

After the two young men said their goodbyes to Isobel and after Tom went to the kitchen to say a quick goodbye to his mother, Tom and Matthew stood outside waiting for Pratt to come pick them up.

"Isn't the big house close enough to walk?" Tom asked.

"Yes, but I need to go visit one of the farms first before the interviews—you don't mind do you?"

Tom shook his head.

A few minutes later, Pratt pulled up to the house. Matthew opened the door, leaving it open for Tom to follow, but Tom had other ideas.

"Pratt, would you like the day off?"

The confused chauffer looked to Matthew. "Sir?"

"Tom, what are you up to?"

"If I drive us, Mr. Pratt here can take the afternoon. Would you deny a working man a day's rest?"

Matthew rolled his eyes then sighed. "Pratt, would you like a ride back to the house?"

"Uh, I suppose."

A grinning Tom rubbed his hands together and walked around the motor to the driver's seat, as Pratt slid over. Tom put his hands on the wheel, then turned to the chauffer. "Has anyone ever driven _you_ anywhere?"

Pratt smiled. "Can't say as they have."

* * *

"So why did you tell Sybil, _really_?"

Tom's head whipped over to look at Matthew. "What?"

"Keep your eyes on the road!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "We're not going to crash, for God's sake. This isn't the first time I've done this."

Matthew smiled. "So answer my question."

"I told you. She asked me if I wanted the chance to see my mother again. I said, 'I see her everyday,' and went on to explain why."

"What was the context?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I'd like for you to admit that you like her, for starters."

Tom laughed. "I do like her."

"So what happened to the guy who wasn't going to fall in love with an earl's daughter."

"Who said anything about love?"

"Your face."

"I am not that transparent, neither am I in love with Sybil Crawley."

"No, you're certainly not transparent, but this is me you're talking to, and I happen to know you better than anyone. You're in _something_ with her."

Tom thought for a moment "I'm . . ."

"What?"

"Intrigued."

"Intrigued? So, it's worse than I thought," Matthew said with a laugh.

"What!? I like her. We're friends. Is that wrong?"

Matthew smiled. "No." He looked at Tom out of the corner of his eye. "Is she why you think you need to tell them about where you come from?"

Tom sighed, but didn't say anything, so Matthew spoke again.

"You're wrong to assume out of hand that they wouldn't allow you to court her properly if they knew."

"Am I?"

"Cousin Robert likes you very much, Tom, so does Cousin Cora. Much more than they like me, I'm not embarrassed to admit."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true. All our lives, when we're around other people you defer to me, play second fiddle, in deference to my father and the fact that I'm his natural son. I don't think you realize you're doing it, but you are, which is absurd since most of the time the chap everyone finds most interesting is you."

Tom rolled his eyes.

"Look, I don't think you have to say anything, but I also don't think you'd have as much to fear as you think you do if you did tell them."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You have an heir to produce, don't you?"

"Oh, look! We're here!" Matthew said over-enthusiastically, which made Tom laugh.

Tom pulled over next to a barn where two men, one who looked to be in his fifties and one much younger stood waiting.

"Hello, Mr. Mason," Matthew said.

The older man came over to shake Matthew's hand. "Mr. Crawley, good to see you again. This is my son, William."

When all introductions were done, the foursome began their walk around the Mason's farm as Matthew discussed his plans for the estate and modernizing production.

"As you can see, we've done a bit of modernizing ourselves," William said pointing to some of their equipment.

"It's to your credit," Matthew said. "Too many fields lay fallow because the yield is so low the work is not worth it for some of the older tenants."

"Well, I've had the benefit of having William home with me the last year. We've done much better than in years past."

"Where were you before?" Tom asked William.

"I was a footman at the big house for several years before the move forced them to let me go."

"Do you want the position again?" Matthew asked. "Because I know the family is in need of one, now that they'll be back at Downton Abbey."

William and his father looked at one another and smiled, before Mr. Mason answered for his son. "We're negotiating that right now. William would like to stay and work the farm, but it's my wife's preference that he work in service."

"Well, let us know. If you want the post again, I'll speak with Carson and it shall be yours."

"Thank you, sir," William said.

"So what of the changes for the tenants?" Asked Mr. Mason.

"I'm sure you've heard of some resistance among some of the tenants, but it's really quite simple," Matthew began. "We want the estate to be self-sustaining. The upkeep of the house and grounds are too much of a drain for anyone to hope to maintain them without some influx of revenues."

"What does that mean for the tenants?" William asked.

Matthew continued, "We need all the lands to be in production, and we need at least some of the output to be sold in trade with the proceeds going back into the estate. We're asking the tenants who do not wish to work the land to take some compensation and turn the farms back over to us. We are rebuilding the cottages in the village, and once they are ready, those tenants will be able to take their retirements there. The tenants who wish to work with us will have their agreements honored. What we would be asking is your help in working the fallow fields. You could keep the yields from your own lands and for your additional work on what would become the estate's farms, you would receive a small payment or an equal reduction in rent—"

"Or . . ." Tom cut in.

Matthew smiled. "Or we could deposit the payment in a savings account with which you could eventually purchase your plot."

Mr. Mason's face went white. "You mean . . . own this land _myself_."

Tom and Matthew both smiled and nodded, and Tom filled in the details.

"Based on what we've calculated, once full production has begun and the initial investment of equipment and labor has been paid off, production from only about a third of the land currently held by the Grantham estate will be needed to keep it running self-sufficiently. We could simply sell the rest off, but it's in our interest that it remain farmland, so we'll keep it in tenancy or reserve sale to those who are already here."

"I can't quite believe it—it sounds a bit too good to be true," said a still bewildered Mr. Mason.

Tom laughed. "I believe that's our main problem in convincing some of the other tenants."

"Landlords have a long, colorful history of misconduct," Matthew said. "Those were men of the upper classes, who believed themselves entitled to what they were taking from you. We were raised by a doctor who taught us to understand the value of work. We know how much you've put in here, and we want to honor that."

"And Lord Grantham has agreed to all this?" Mr. Mason asked.

Tom nodded. "It wasn't easy to convince him, but he's lived the consequences of sticking to the old ways. This way Downton Abbey is protected, which is his greatest wish, and the tenants are given a choice as to their fate, not left with nothing, which is what would have happened if the whole estate had been sold after the move. This is a good idea, but it's new, which is why it's scary."

"I could help," William said, excitedly. Turning to his father, he said, "Surely, the goal of owning the farm ourselves will convince mother I should stay here with you and not go back to service. And I could talk to the other tenants to get them to sign on. I could help with the transition once things get going."

"He could," Mr. Mason said to Tom and Matthew. "He knows the new equipment, having worked it with me this past year, and he knows the other tenants well—he grew up on this land, as I did."

Tom and Matthew looked at one another, then back to the Masons. "Any help you could give us would be most welcome," Matthew said.

Hands shook and agreements eagerly made, Tom and Matthew were on their way a quarter of an hour later.

"How old do you suppose William is?" Matthew asked as they made their way back to Downton Abbey.

Tom shrugged. "Twenty, twenty-one, perhaps. Why?"

"He'd make a great agent if he had a bit more experience."

Tom stopped the car. "What experience does he need, exactly?"

Matthew thought for a minute. "He knows the land."

"He knows the tenants," Tom added.

"He'd not be tied to the old ideas."

"Anything he doesn't know of management or accounting, we could teach him."

Matthew rubbed his forehead, then looked at Tom. "Are we mad?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, we are." Then, he turned the car around to drive back to Mason farm so they could offer William the job.

* * *

The following Monday, the day that the family was to return to Downton, Matthew and Tom traveled to Ripon to work together for the first time. Once they had arrived, Matthew followed one of the stewards into the office of the partners, who were there to welcome him on his first day, while Tom proceeded to his office.

After hanging his hat and suit jacket, Tom sat down at his desk only to find a small envelope addressed to him. He turned it over, but there was no return address. The handwriting was unknown to him. He walked to the room where the secretaries sat to ask as to its provenance.

"It came in this morning's post, Mr. Branson," one of them said without looking up from her typewriter.

Tom walked back to his office, looking at the envelope and running his thumb over the handwriting. He had a guess, but it couldn't be.

_Could it?_

He closed the door to his office and sat down. He stared at the envelope for several minutes before finally opening it. He grinned upon seeing her name at the bottom of it. He'd been right.

_Mr. Branson,_

_Sitting here thinking about the haunting novel you gave me to read, it occurred to me that you've sent me two notes now, and I have not had the decency to send you a response in kind. I hope you do not think me impertinent for sending it to your office and without a return address, but I didn't want you to be the subject of gossip at your place of work or the subject of teasing at Crawley House._

_Having made up my mind to send it, I couldn't be sure whether this letter would reach you before our return to Downton, but I simply couldn't wait to discuss Frankenstein. Macabre, indeed! I've never read anything like it, and I mean that in the best way possible. You mentioned that the author was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. I do love my mama dearly, but I must admit I've thought this week how thrilling it would have been to be raised by a woman of such ideas. The work in this novel, from a woman's hand, is an obvious testament as to what we can be capable of when our minds and imaginations are given license to run free, rather than stifled by the silly constraints of propriety._

_As to the book itself, what a marvelously dark exploration of the human mind and what can happen when we succumb to our basest instincts. For surely base is the only word for Dr. Frankenstein's choice to use his intelligence for such a dark purpose, isn't it? Perhaps I am being unfairly judgmental. The creature, after all, was made evil by the treatment it was subject to at the hands of other humans who might have given their compassion. It's all too interesting! I am eager for your next recommendation. I am also bringing back a few books from my Aunt Rosamund's collection. Her late husband, dear Uncle Marmaduke, was himself an avid reader and a lover of mysteries. I hope you have not read the work of Arthur Conan Doyle. His Sherlock Holmes stories are quite thrilling, and I'd love nothing more than to introduce you to something that you might consider half as exciting as what you have given me._

_Alas, the dressing gong has just sounded. So I must be off. Thank you, again. I look forward to more chats with you, although there are no places at Downton quite like the alcove to hide away in. Perhaps I shall build one myself someday._

_Your friend, Sybil Crawley_

Tom might have kept reading the letter over and over late into the morning had not one of the stewards knocked on his door about ten minutes after he first opened it.

"Sir, a Stewart Pratt here to see you. Lord Grantham's chauffer, he said."

"Yes, send him in."

Tom stood as Pratt stepped in, hat in hand. "Hello, Pratt. What brings you by?"

"Well, sir, I hate to inconvenience you at your place of work, but, the family returns today and both motors are needed to fetch them at the train station. Mr. Taylor, who works for her ladyship, the Dowager Countess, had agreed last week to come along with me, but it seems he's out of sorts this morning. Knowing now that you can drive, and having no other option, I was wondering if you'd help."

Tom smiled. "I'd be happy to. What time do they arrive?"

"On the 3:45 train, sir."

"All right, I'll be by the house to meet you at the appropriate time."

"Much obliged, sir."

Tom smiled as Pratt stepped out of the room. He folded up the letter and put it in his waistcoat pocket, holding his hand against it for a long moment before getting back to work.

* * *

That afternoon, the family was delighted to see Tom at the train station to pick them up. After Pratt explained the situation and Tom helped him mount their luggage on the two automobiles, they set off. Pratt drove Robert and Cora, while Tom drove the girls, with Mary and Edith siting in the very back and Sybil facing them in the seat directly behind the driver. She'd taken care to sit on the opposite side of the driver's seat so she could see Tom if she turned her head only slightly to her left.

He'd been silent most of the way as the sisters chatted idly about the train ride, but Sybil so wanted to hear his voice that about three-quarters of the way through the journey, she finally turned to him and spoke.

"I didn't know you could drive. You really are a jack of all trades."

Tom took a peak at her and smiled.

"How did you learn?" Edith asked, leaning forward a bit.

"A mechanic in Manchester taught me. I gave him some legal help, and he wasn't able to pay the full fee, so I asked if he'd teach me about cars instead."

"That was neighborly of you," Sybil said.

"I'd like to buy my own eventually, so it seemed a practical deal to make."

"Well, if you do, don't make it one of these," Mary said. "They're frightfully uncomfortable. I much prefer whatever it is Aunt Rosamund keeps in London."

"I don't suppose you remember the make?" Tom asked her.

"Why in the world would I bother myself with that knowledge," Mary answered, her tone making Sybil and Edith laugh.

"I'd like to drive someday," Edith said.

Mary turned to her with a look as if she'd grown a second head. "Whatever for?"

"Why not? Gentlemen like driving, why shouldn't women."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"I'd settle for learning how to ride a bicycle," Sybil said. "Oh look, there it is!"

Sybil turned and got to her knees to see the old house as it appeared in the distance and rose to its full majesty as they approached. None of the sisters had seen it since the day they'd left. Edith felt a squeeze on her hand, and turned to see a teary-eyed Mary holding it tightly. Sybil sat back down and seeing this rare display of emotional solidarity between her sisters, leaned toward them to cover their joined hands with hers. They remained that way until Tom brought the car to a stop at the front door.

Tom hopped out of the car and went around the side to help the girls out. Edith stepped out first, then Mary, who stopped in front of Tom and said, "I know we owe this to you and Matthew, so thank you. It means so much to be here again."

Tom smiled at Mary. Then he turned to Sybil who followed Mary out of the car. She took the hand he held out for her.

"Welcome home," he said quietly.

Sybil looked into the depths of his blue eyes, then, still holding his hand, turned to look at the house that until this moment had never felt like home before.

"Thank you for the letter," he added.

"Thank _you_ ," she said, turning back to him with a smile and squeezing his hand before letting go.

"For what, exactly?"

"'Everything. This."

"This is just the beginning."

Sybil smiled. "I know. That's the best part."


	15. Edith Takes a Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More series one, episode three action. Every scene in this chapter is repurposed from one on the show.
> 
> Quick note about my approach to writing Mathew in this and upcoming chapters: On the show, he goes from being annoyed by Mary's condescension in episode two (Perseus and sea monster conversation) to seemingly interested in her and jealous of the attention she gives Pamuk in episode three, a switch that seems prompted by nothing other than maybe his realization that Edith liked him, which, if that's what it is, it really doesn't make any sense. My conclusion was that we are supposed to think at that point that Matthew is not experienced with women and doesn't know what he's doing. The Matthew in this story was engaged once and lost his fiancée to illness, which means that he has something in common with Mary (who lost her fiancé, Patrick) and has dealt with love and loss in a way that made him smarter and a bit more cynical about women and flirting. He also has Tom to confide in.
> 
> Also, regarding how Sybil addresses Tom as "Mr. Branson" in the letter: In case you didn't notice, at dinner on the night after her birthday, Sybil says, "I agree with Tom . . ." because once Violet and Cora both start addressing him as a family member, the girls follow suit. But for the letter, Sybil would have thought that being formal would be appropriate lest someone other than Tom see it and think it's a "love" letter. Sybil, at this point, is very protective of their blossoming friendship and doesn't want meddling/teasing at the hands of the people that they know to make things awkward between them.

 

**November 1912**

Sybil's morning routine had been the same for the last month.

She'd come down to breakfast early, wait until her father was finished with the newspapers, take them to the library and spend the morning scouring them for job notices for secretaries. Taking care to focus on entry-level and eliminate the ones that sought proof of extensive secretarial experience, Sybil realized that opportunities for Gwen were few and far between. But this morning, finally, she hit on something. Sybil knew it would be wrong to interrupt her friend while she was working, especially now that they were back at Downton, where there was more to do. But by midday, she couldn't hold it in any longer.

After luncheon had been cleared, she went up to her room to fetch the paper where she'd left it on her desk and then back down to the servants hall to find Gwen. The staff had just finished eating and had started to disperse and return to their duties when Sybil came down. Seeing her at the foot of the stairs, Gwen quickly pulled her aside.

"Milady, what are you doing here—you could have rung!"

"Someone else might have come up, and this is important!"

Gwen smiled. "Well, then?"

"I saw this," Sybil said holding up the newspaper.

Gwen took it and looked at the notice Sybil had circled.

"It's for a secretary at a new firm in Thirsk. See?"

"But . . ."

"No buts! You've long been finished with the course. Now it's time you find a job. I know how little time you have with all your work, so I've taken the liberty of looking for you. This is perfect!"

"I don't know, milady."

"Don't lose heart now! Write to them today and name me as your reference. I can give it without ever specifying precisely what your work here has been."

Gwen took a deep breath, and Sybil smiled, not wanting to push her further.

"Will you check with Anna about coming up tonight before diner, so we can talk more?"

Gwen smiled and nodded.

Sybil went back upstairs, intending to head to the library, when she ran into Edith, who had her hat and coat on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"To do what?" Sybil asked, curious as to the determined look on Edith's face.

"Find a life."

* * *

For Edith, Downton Place had felt like a trap. Literally and figuratively. It had been hard enough to grow up along side Mary's sense of entitlement and self-importance when everything was fine. To have to live with her after so much of what Mary believed solely hers was lost was a special kind of torture. Edith understood that as the eldest Mary felt ownership over Downton Abbey, but to Edith, Mary behaved as if nobody felt its loss as acutely as she did, as if the great tragedy of their father's failure had happened only to Mary and to no one else. It was a stifling way to live.

And there was the fact that the nearest village was an hour's walk away. Not one for riding like her sisters, all Edith could do to get away was walk in circles around the house. Like a prize pig sent out to wander the pasture aimlessly.

Making the short walk to Downton village, Edith laughed at herself and tried to shoo away her self-pity. It was such a relief to be back home, where it was easy to lose oneself in the endless maze of hallways and where a distraction in the village was only twenty minutes away—a quarter of an hour if one walked with purpose. And on this afternoon Edith had one.

Months had passed since she'd admitted to her sisters her interest in Matthew, and it had taken as much time to decide exactly how to act on that interest. She had not been taken by Matthew upon first meeting him, nor in the first weeks of their acquaintance. It was to be expected. Having been in love with someone whom she'd known all her life distorted Edith's view of how it was supposed to feel at the start with someone who was more or less a stranger. If she was honest with herself she could admit that her curiosity about him stemmed from how aloof he was with Mary. Mary, of course, would say that if she and Matthew weren't close it was because _she_ had made it so, but Edith could see that Matthew wasn't interested. Not in Mary, not in any of them.

Mary's declaration on the day they'd met him that he'd be choosing a bride from among the sisters had turned out to be quite wrong, in fact. It was possible that he was still mourning the fiancée who had left him the money that ultimately had allowed for their return to Downton. It was possible he was simply a bit shy. Tom seemed the more self-assured of the two and had endeared himself to her parents and grandmother quite easily, which was amusing to Edith given his opinions and his penchant for voicing them at every turn. But it was also possible that Matthew was simply biding his time—not asserting himself too much to give the family time to get used to him as the heir. Tom liked pushing people's buttons, but then he had nothing to lose. Matthew had everything, including Edith's attention.

She didn't know whether she could love Matthew. She didn't know whether she wanted to. But as she'd intimated to Sybil on her way out, she needed a life outside of the walls of Downton. Matthew was as good a path toward that goal as any.

Edith was so lost in her thoughts as she walked toward Crawley House that she didn't hear Matthew calling out to her or the ringing of his bicycle bell until he was upon her.

"Oh," she said, a bit alarmed. She hadn't quite worked out yet what she was going to say and seeing him discombobulated her a bit.

Matthew tipped his hat to her and stepped off his bicycle. "Hello," he said with a smile. "I'd offer you a lift if I could."

"It was you I was coming to see," Edith replied, trying to calm her nerves.

"Oh, then your timing is matchless. I just got off the train."

"From your office? How are you liking the work?"

"Very well. It's been nice to get back to it after focusing solely on getting the farms up and running again the first month I was here."

"I can't say I know much about the running of the estate or the changes you've made. All we get from Papa about the matter has to do with his continued concern regarding a former footman serving as agent."

"I'm happy to report William Mason has stepped up to the rigors of the position most admirably and is doing an excellent job. You're welcome to pass that along to Cousin Robert."

Edith smiled, then looked around. "Shouldn't Tom be with you? Don't you work together?"

"We do. He stayed behind to get a few things finished."

Edith swallowed. _No more stalling._

"Well, the reason I was coming by was . . . the other day at dinner, Cousin Isobel was saying you wanted to see some of the local churches."

"She's right, I do. I want to know more about the county generally if I'm to spend the rest of my days here."

"Well, I thought I might . . . show you a few of the nearer ones. We could take a picnic and make an outing of it."

"That's very kind."

"Nonsense. I'll enjoy it. It's too long since I played the tourist."

"It would have to be a Saturday. Churches work on Sunday and I work all the week days."

"Then Saturday it is. I'll get Lynch to sort out the governess cart, and I'll pick you up at about eleven."

The words were barely out when Edith started walking away, not wanting to linger or seem too desperate. She held her breath until she'd rounded the nearest corner.

If she'd turned around as she was leaving, she would have seen Matthew blinking several times in bewilderment, then smiling as he realized what had just happened.

* * *

 

"Which churches will you show him?"

Edith considered her answer before replying to Anna's question. They were in Mary's room later that day. Anna was tying Mary into her corset while Edith, already dressed for dinner, watched from Mary's bed.

"I can't decide," Edith said finally. "Kirby, possibly, or perhaps Easingwold."

"You don't think you're being a bit obvious?" Mary asked archly.

"Coming from you, that's rich," was Edith's response.

Before Mary could offer her own retort, Cora came in holding a letter.

"There was a letter from Mr. Napier in the evening post," she said, looking brightly at Mary.

"Did he accept the invitation?" Mary asked.

"Not yet."

"Perhaps he thought it was too obvious," Edith said, feeling as if she'd won this round.

"Obvious? What are you talking about?" Cora asked looking back and forth between her daughters.

"Edith has devised a scheme to trap Matthew by taking him to visit churches in the area."

"It's a perfectly fine idea!" Edith protested. "He expressed an interest. Why should he see anything in it except my being helpful?"

"Oh . . . Matthew, is it?" Cora said with a sigh. She thought for a minute, tapping the letter against her hand. "You know my dear, perhaps Mary is right."

"What?!" Edith exclaimed as Mary smiled, lifting her nose in the air. "Why would you say so?"

"You have to remember that he's been engaged before. I know he's only been here a few months, but if marrying were on his mind, he'd have made as much clear by now. Perhaps a more subtle approach is best for him."

"Well, the invitation has been made and accepted. I'll look a fool if I take it back now."

"How would that be different from every other day?" Mary said.

Cora gave her eldest daughter a stern look. "Oh, Mary!"

"I'm going," Edith insisted. "I don't care what either of you say."

Just after she'd spoken, Sybil walked in, having gotten dressed in her own room with Gwen's help—after a long talk about Gwen's inquiry letter regarding the secretarial post in Thirsk.

Mary, now being buttoned into her dress, looked over to her and smiled.

Cora narrowed her eyes at her youngest, then turned to Edith. "You shall take Sybil with you."

"No!"

"Take me where?" Sybil asked, sitting on the chair next to the window.

"To visit local churches with Mr. Matthew on Saturday," Anna answered, holding back a snicker at the back and forth she was witnessing.

"Must I?" Sybil asked, turning to her mother. "I find those places rather dull, myself. Having to go once a week is more than enough."

Cora rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be silly. You'll go and enjoy yourself."

"But won't Sybil's presence make things worse?" Mary asked her mother.

"How so?" Cora asked.

"It'll be obvious she's there as a chaperone if Edith made the invitation on her own."

Cora sighed. "You're absolutely right. Edith, write to Matthew and invite him to bring Tom along. That way it's just a group outing, nothing anyone should be intimidated by." Turning to Sybil, she added, "It'll be your job to keep Tom entertained. Find a way to pull yourselves away now and again to give Matthew and Edith some time alone."

Sybil could barely contain her laughter at what she'd just walked into. "Um . . . all right."

"And just how are we supposed to get around?" Edith asked, now thoroughly miffed that her perfectly planned outing had been taken over. "We can't all fit in the governess cart."

"Tom can drive," Sybil put in. "We could take the motor."

"There you have it," Cora said, her tone suggesting that part of the conversation was over.

Edith stood to leave. "Fine. I'm going down before you decide to plan out any more of my life."

Cora smiled after she'd gone, looking between Sybil and Mary. "It'll be better this way. I just don't want Matthew to feel pressured by us."

"Was there anything else in Mr. Napier's letter?" Mary asked.

"Oh, yes!" Cora said, looking back to the paper in her hands. "Apparently he's bringing a friend with him, an attaché at the Turkish embassy—a Mr. . . . Kemal Pamuk. He's a son of one of the sultan's ministers and he's here for the Albanian talks."

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"To create an independent Albania," Sybil answered. "Don't you read the papers?"

"I'm too busy living a life," Mary replied. "Since when do you?"

"I like to keep myself informed," Sybil said.

"Since Turkey's signature is vital," Cora went on, "Mr. Napier's been given the job of keeping him happy until the conference begins, and he's eager to try an English hunt." Cora stopped for a moment, her expression brightening with an idea. "I shall invite this Mr. Pamuk to stay here as well. Who knows? A little hospitality in an English house may make all the difference to the outcome. And Mary, you will ride out with him."

Mary rolled her eyes, "Oh, Mama, must I? My boots are at the menders and I haven't ridden for weeks."

Choosing to ignore Mary's pleas, Cora turned to the young maid. "Anna, please see that Lady Mary is fully equipped to go hunting."

"Yes, your ladyship," she answered dutifully, giving Mary an apologetic look once Cora had left the room.

Sybil stood and walked over to the vanity as Mary put the last of her jewely on and Anna picked up Mary's day clothes to take to the laundry.

"It will give you more time to spend with Mr. Napier, won't it?" Sybil asked.

"I suppose. Just as I suppose I'll eventually be excited that he's visiting at all."

"Don't you like him?"

"I do. At least, I want to."

"Well, that's something," Sybil said, encouragingly.

"And something is better than nothing," Mary said, as stood and turned toward Sybil to head down to dinner.

Sybil smiled. "One look at you, and Mr. Napier will feel quite swept of his feet."

"You're very sweet," Mary said, "but you're forgetting that the one who needs to be swept of her feet is me. No word yet on whether Evelyn Napier is much good at that."

Sybil tucked her arm into Mary's and the two went for the stairs. "If he were an actual sweeper, though, we'd know he'd not stand much of a chance with you."

"Quite right."

* * *

**Two days later**

"Tom," Matthew called to his friend, whose nose was deep in a book, from across the parlor at Crawley House.

He received no answer.

"Tom."

Nothing.

"TOM!"

Finally, Tom's head jerked up with a start. "What?!"

Matthew laughed. "So it's another Sherlock Holmes book, then?"

"Sorry," he said with a bit of a bashful smile. "It's quite gripping. I've never before read a mystery novel in which I couldn't figure out who's done what."

"What's this one called?"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Is it from Downton's library?"

"No, they're all from Lady Rosamund's late husband's collection. Sybil brought them from London."

"She did, did she? Just for you?" Matthew asked with a smirk.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Did you have a question or where you interrupting just to bother me?"

Matthew laughed. "I was going to ask Moseley to bring in tea. Would you like some?"

"Sure."

Matthew stood to call for their butler, when his mother stepped in.

"I've had a note from Cousin Cora. She asks if we can dine on Saturday. There are two young men staying for a hunt, so the numbers will be even for once."

"What men?" Matthew asked.

"A Turkish diplomat called something I can't read," Isobel said, "And quote, 'Lord Branksome's charming son.' " She snickered. "He's to be flung at Mary, presumably."

"When it comes to Cousin Mary," Matthew said. "She is quite capable of doing her own flinging, I assure you."

"So is Cousin Edith," Tom said with a grin, not looking up from his book.

Matthew gave Tom a stern look. "Hush up, you."

"What's he talking about?" Isobel asked.

Matthew sighed. "The outing Edith has planned for us on Saturday."

"To the churches?" Isobel asked. "You mean you're both going?"

"Yes, we _are_ ," Matthew said, pointedly looking at Tom. "Edith wrote yesterday to invite Tom to go along."

"What does a Catholic want to do with visiting Anglican churches!?" Tom exclaimed.

"You're not getting out of it," Mathew said. "Besides, I've told you Cousin Sybil is coming."

"I've half a mind to believe she's a reluctant participant as well," Tom said.

"Well, bully for you, then, you're a perfectly matched pair, but you'll not leave me to go alone."

"Oh, stop fretting, both of you. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time," Isobel said. "It's good for those girls to get out of that big house once in a while. You should be patient with Edith, Matthew. Think of all the pressure on her to be married well—on all three, really—as the only tangible goal their parents have set for them in life. I must say, I sometimes feel very lucky to have only sons. Now, shall we have some tea?"

"Yes!" both young men said emphatically.

Isobel smiled and stepped out to find Moseley. She was back a few minutes later, and sat down on the sofa in the middle of the room. Tom stood from the chair he'd been sitting in and joined her on the sofa.

"Aunt Isobel, do you ever imagine what it would be like to have girls?" he asked.

"There are moments I wish I'd been blessed by a daughter. And then I remember that I'll have two of them sooner or later."

Tom laughed. "When we marry, you mean?"

Isobel nodded, smiling.

"Well, plan on later rather than sooner for me," Matthew said. " _Much_ later."


	16. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are companion pieces that cover the events of the Saturday and Sunday that Pamuk and Napier are visiting. This chapter is the hunt and the "double date" to the churches, and next chapter will be dinner, drawing room chatter, and the now infamous overnight escapades of Pamuk.
> 
> Fair warning: I believe Pamuk and Mary's encounter on the show was tantamount to rape (she only relents once he convinces her that he can besmirch her reputation whether she does it or not), and I believe the scene was written so that a modern audience would see it that way while understanding that Mary herself would not. Mary considers herself complicit in the act because of the sexual politics of her time, but even today, there is still a tragic "blame the victim" culture when it comes to sexual assault that plays a role in convincing women they do it to themselves. This is a very difficult and sensitive subject, but I think it's important to explain my perspective in writing that part of the story. The bottom line is, I see Pamuk as a predator and that's how I've written him. The storyline plays out very differently here but in a way that I hope is satisfying and that remains true to the characters involved.
> 
> But don't worry, there is plenty of fluff to balance out the darkness. ;)

 

**Sunday, 1 a.m.**

He could admit it was a pleasing view, the way the footman's jacket hugged his back tightly and tapered down over his hips in a perfectly tailored fit.

The hips were slim, almost like a woman's.

He knew men of that persuasion, and he'd wondered, after the warning he'd given the footman this afternoon, if it mightn't all be easier if he were too. But their beauty was like an inoculation against it. And she was too beautiful. _They_ were too beautiful. He'd laughed at the phrase "English Rose" before this day, but no more. And now, they would be his. There would be resistance, of course. There was always resistance. But he could always talk them into it—well, _almost_ always. It really didn't matter. If they weren't willing tonight, who would be there to stop him?

When the footman stopped in front of her door, he walked around him and asked, "And Lady Mary?"

The footman pointed to a door down the hall, then turned and left.

He looked around. The hallway was deserted. He smiled to himself, then opened the door and walked in.

* * *

**Saturday, 10 a.m., fifteen hours earlier**

Sybil stepped out of the house and was immediately surrounded by dogs.

"Apologies, milady," Lynch called out from his mount. "They're a wild bunch this morning."

Sybil laughed as she stepped around them. "They'll enjoy the hunt, then."

"Indeed," the groom said with a smile. "I've noticed you haven't come 'round to the stables since we've been back."

Sybil looked up to the sky. It was a crisp, overcast day, perfect for a ride. She looked back to Lynch and said, "No, we'll have to remedy that soon."

She had come out to admire the horses, having seen the hunting party gathering from her bedroom window upstairs. Aside from Mary, Sybil didn't know any of the participants, so she simply smiled as they tipped their hats to her while she wandered about the group, occasionally stopping to admire a particularly fine looking animal.

Sybil noticed Mary at the edge of the driveway looking very smart, as always, in her riding clothes. Mary was looking down at their mother who, no doubt, was giving her eldest last minute instructions as to the gentleman who had been invited on her behalf. Sybil laughed to herself and thought about how many years she might have before she became the target of her mother's constant tutorials in the ways of attracting men. Cora meant well and saw getting her daughters settled as her primary responsibility, but Sybil, as she was wont to do, wondered whether leaving well enough alone was not a better approach to helping her and her sisters achieve happiness and security.

Mary had protested when Cora had pushed her to join the hunt, but sitting on her horse now, she felt good. Riding made Mary feel powerful. She could not always control the turns of her life, but for a few hours, she could control the hulking beast beneath her and could allow herself to believe that if she chose, she could ride out into the great unknown and make her own destiny. The emotion was a fleeting one, but Mary held on to it, however naïve she knew it was to do so.

Watching her mother walk back toward the front of the house, Mary caught Sybil's eye and waved. Mary would have enjoyed riding out with Sybil today, but she knew her sister preferred solitary rides to hunting. And she also knew Sybil would have her hands full trying to wrangle Matthew, Tom and Edith. Mary sighed, thinking theirs might be the more fun outing of the day and wondering, very briefly, whether she might not have preferred to join them.

Mary knew Edith considered herself in constant competition with Mary, and Mary acknowledged that she played a rather large part in the dreadful state of affairs between them, but things were different with Matthew. Whereas Patrick had been deeply interested in both sisters, which had sowed the seeds of their rivalry, Matthew seemed to prefer only his solitude. Perhaps his desire not to be entangled with either might finally broker a peace between them—a peace that poor Sybil had spent too long trying to arbitrate. And then there was Tom, the dreadfully annoying know-it-all brother Mary had secretly always hoped for, but would never admit she'd ever wanted.

But being a sister was not her task today, so Mary pushed all thought of the church visitors out of her mind.

Spotting Lynch in the crowd, Mary made her way over to him to wait for the rest of the party. Mr. Napier and Mr. Pamuk, she noticed, had yet to arrive.

"Everyone's ready to set off, pending the arrival of Misters Napier and Pamuk," Lynch said. "Can you see them, milady?"

Mary looked around. "Not yet—oh, wait a minute, here is Mr. Napier." She turned her horse to face the new arrival and said, "I was beginning to give up on you. We're moving off."

"We were fools not to accept your mother's invitation and send the horses down early," Evelyn responded, lifting his hat to her. "As it is, my groom only got here an hour or two ago and my mount's as jump as a deb at her first ball."

Mary smiled. She had forgotten just how nice looking he was. "What about Mr. Pamuk? I gather if he takes a tumble, you will be endangering world peace."

"Don't worry about Kemal. He knows what he's doing on a horse."

"Well, where is he?" Mary asked looking around.

"Fussing," Evelyn said, practically spitting the word out. "He's rather a dandy."

Mary rolled her eyes, not particularly interested in spending more time with this third party than absolutely necessary. _He_ would not be the focus of Evelyn's attention by the end of the day, if Mary could help it. "Well, I can see him now," she said. "A funny little foreigner with a wide, toothy grin and hair reeking with pomade."

"I wouldn't quite say that," Evelyn answered. "Here he is now."

Mary turned to get a look at the man approaching on her left.

No, Evelyn Napier had not swept Mary off her feet at first look.

He'd left that job for one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey.

Mary momentarily felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She did not yet know what love felt like, but she knew this was not it. Whatever welled in her stomach as she'd laid eyes on this man was something else all together. If she'd been forced to spit out an adjective at that very moment, she'd have settled on "sinful." For surely, beauty like this, in a man, could only be wielded for wicked purposes.

"Lady Mary Crawley, I presume?" Mr. Pamuk lifted his hat in greeting and Mary did what she could to collect herself.

"You presume right."

"Sorry to be so disheveled," he said. "We've been on a train since dawn and we had to change in a shed."

"You don't look disheveled to me," she replied with a coy smile.

At that moment, the huntsman blew his horn, gathering the hounds around him and starting into a trot to lead them off.

Mary, suddenly eager to shed her chaperone, quickly turned to the groom to dismiss him. "Lynch, you don't have to stay with me," she said.

"But His Lordship asked me to," Lynch protested.

"It's a waste of your day," Mary replied airily. "Help Mr. Napier's man get their things back to the house."

"His Lordship said—"

"Don't worry," Evelyn cut in, "I'll look after her."

"We'll make it our business to keep her from harm, I promise," added Mr. Pamuk.

The trio rode off, pushing their horses into a quick gallop in pursuit of the rest of the party.

Lynch dismounted and walked over to Robert, who was standing with Cora, Sybil and Carson by the door, but before he could say anything Cora spoke up.

"I'm sure Lady Mary is in fine hands, Lynch, no need for concern."

"Very well, your ladyship," he said with a slight bow. "I'll help see to Mr. Napier's things."

"Thank you, Lynch," Robert said. Turning to Sybil and Cora, as he moved to go back inside, he added, "Let's hope she's not too ambitious with the fences."

Cora smiled. "I have a feeling she's feeling more than ambitious today."

Sybil laughed and followed her parents inside.

"When do Matthew and Tom arrive to fetch you and Edith?" Cora asked, turning back to Sybil as they stepped into the entrance hall.

"Soon, I imagine," Sybil answered, "Edith said she and Matthew settled on their arriving at a quarter past ten, to give time for the hunters to clear off."

"Here they are now, milady," Carson called out from the door.

"Well, I'll be in the library if anyone needs me," Robert said, heading off in that direction, while Cora and Sybil walked back to the door.

Mother and daughter stepped outside again and, sure enough, the two young men could be seen riding up the driveway on their bicycles.

"Good morning," Matthew said, tipping his hat as they rode up.

"Good morning," Cora said, smiling.

"We saw the hunting party taking off," Tom said, hopping off his bicycle.

"You've just missed them," Sybil said.

Cora turned to the butler, who was still standing at the door. "Carson, please have Thomas come and take these to the garage," she said pointing to the bicycles. "And call Pratt to bring up the Renault."

"There's no need for that, Cousin Cora," Tom said. "I'm happy to walk to the garage myself and drive it up here."

"I'll come with you," Sybil said, walking over to him.

"All right then," Cora said, "I'll go tell Edith you've arrived, and I'll bring your hat and coat, darling, so you can leave as soon as she's here."

"Thank you," Sybil said. "Where is Edith, anyway? I thought she'd come to see the hunters off."

"I believe she's gone down to the kitchen. Mrs. Patmore has made a nice picnic for you."

"That's very kind," Matthew said.

"You can wait inside for her, if you like," Cora said signaling to Matthew to come in with her. He did, after leaning his bicycle against the wall adjacent to the door. Carson followed and closed the doors behind them.

Tom set his own bicycle next to Matthew's and turned back to Sybil. "Shall we?"

She smiled brightly and the two set off to bring the motor around.

"I should warn you," Tom said, "in the spirit of the honesty upon which our friendship is built, that I've been tasked with running interference between Matthew and Cousin Edith today."

Sybil stopped. Tom turned to see a horrified look on her face. "Interference?! What could you possibly have to interfere with? My sister's not on some military operation."

Tom smiled and tilted his head, a knowing look on his face.

Sybil's shoulders sank, but she smiled in spite of herself. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes at him and said, "Well, I'll have _you_ know that _I've_ been tasked with giving Edith and Cousin Matthew plenty of time to themselves, and if you think you'll be getting your way over me, then you don't know me at all."

Tom burst out laughing, realizing how much more enjoyable today was going to be than he'd originally thought.

Ignoring his reaction, Sybil walked past him, nose in the air and playful smile on her face. She was about ten paces ahead of him when she turned to him again. "Are you coming or not?"

Tom ran to catch up, and they walked the rest of way to the garage. When they'd made it to the motor, he moved to open the door so she could climb in the back, but not seeing her, he turned and saw that she had sat herself up front instead.

"So it's going to be like that is it?" he teased, climbing in next to her.

She turned and raised her eyebrows at him. "Would you prefer Matthew or Edith ride next to you?"

Tom smiled as he eased the automobile out of the garage. "No, I most certainly would not."

* * *

So far, the ride had been invigorating. Little had been said between Mary, Evelyn or the foreign friend, but Mary could see that the two men were enjoying themselves. She didn't know just how well Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk knew one another, but it was obvious there was an easy rapport between them.

The party was nearing the narrow bridge that passed over the creek at the southern edge of Downton's grounds, so Mary pulled her horse up a bit. Looking around, she saw Mr. Pamuk pull up also, a bit away from the crowd. She guided her horse toward him.

"I hope the day is living up to your expectations," she said, a bit breathless from the ride.

"It is exceeding them in every way," he responded.

Mary blinked, accepting what he clearly meant as a compliment to her, a bit at a loss as to how a man could be both so subtle and so obvious at the same time. She looked around again. "And where's Mr. Napier?"

"He's gone over the bridge, look." Mr. Pamuk nodded toward where the party had amassed waiting to cross two by two.

"Ah." Mary looked back over to Mr. Pamuk who was the picture of boyish charm.

"And what about you?" he asked. "Will you follow him? Or will you come over the jump with me?"

"Oh, I was never much one for going 'round by the road."

Mr. Pamuk smiled widely. "Stay by me and we'll take it together."

There had been more behind his question than where to lead her mount, Mary could see. She felt a bit like Eve in the garden, tempted by the wily creature while her intended remained true to the path laid out by God. Perhaps if the setting had been different, Mary would have taken the proper, wiser course. But she was on her horse, and here of all places, she felt like the master of her fate, the rules her own to dictate.

Her answer suggested that she did not think she was the victim, but the temptress herself.

Still, it was Pamuk who took the lead over the fence and through the mud. She followed, not wanting to be left behind.

* * *

"Do you suppose we could go up into the belfry?" Sybil asked, as she, Edith, Matthew and Tom stood in the middle of the nave of St. Mary's Church in Thirsk, the third on their tour.

"Oh, I'd rather not," Edith said.

"Why not?" asked Matthew, turning to Edith. He had stepped forward into one of the pews to admire the gothic arches at closer proximity.

Sybil snickered. "Edith is not one for heights."

"I'd just rather keep my feet on solid ground, that's all."

Matthew smiled. "That's my preference also."

"Well, we're going to try," Sybil said pulling Tom by the arm to the narrow staircase to their right, at the end of the west arcade. Tom looked back at Matthew and shrugged, a helpless expression on his face and as he let Sybil pull him along.

Edith looked at Matthew with a nervous smile, wondering whether her sister had been too obvious—a word that had been haunting her since Mary had uttered it a few days before.

Matthew came back into the aisle and nodded his head toward the chancel. "I reckon these windows will be nicer to look at than the bird droppings they are likely to find up there."

Edith smiled, a bit more at ease, and followed him toward the front of the church.

Meanwhile, having made it to the top of the stairs, Sybil opened the church brochure she'd picked up on the way in.

"It says here that the tenor bell was the handiwork of a well known York bellfounder named John Potter. It was cast in the year 1410 and predates the battle of Agincourt, the War of the Roses and the Reformation."

Tom smiled. "So it's been converted."

"Converted?"

"It was a Catholic bell before it was Anglican."

"Do you feel more welcome here, then?" Sybil asked with a teasing smile.

"I do."

She looked at him for a long moment. "I feel silly admitting this, but it didn't occur to me until today that you'd be Catholic."

"Did you not notice that I am not at church on Sundays with Aunt Isobel and Matthew?" Tom asked, walking around the small floor space around the bells.

Sybil snickered. "I don't pay much attention while I'm at church, I'm afraid."

"Neither do I," Tom said with a laugh. "I suppose there is some comfort to be found in the ritual of it all and I do enjoy the opportunity to reflect on things, but I've never been one for the doctrine."

"But you do go to church?"

"I do." He smiled bashfully. "It's one of the few things mam and I do together on our own. That's part of the appeal, as well. My father was a very proud Catholic."

"Do you remember much about him?"

"Not really. Mam still has the suit he wore on their wedding day—that's about all he left us."

Sybil thought for a long moment about whether she really wanted to ask her next question. "Do you suppose . . . um . . . do you think that I could meet her someday, your mama? Would that be OK?"

Tom looked at her, surprised at the request. "I don't see why not."

They looked at one another for a long while, until Sybil finally broke the stare and looked back at the bells.

"How many more church schisms do you think they will survive?" she asked.

"Many more than we will."

Sybil looked back at Tom and said, "Perhaps, we should head back down."

"Lead the way," he said with a soft smile.

But when they were back down on the main floor of the church, Edith and Matthew were nowhere to be found.

"Have they left us?" Sybil asked.

"Well, Matthew doesn't know how to drive, so they can't have gone far."

"Let's wait for them outside. I much prefer the churchyard to the church itself."

"You don't like going to church, then?" Tom asked as they stepped out onto the front steps. They sat down at a bench shaded by a large willow tree, just south of the entrance.

"It's not that I don't like it, exactly," Sybil responded. "I do believe in God, but all the rest of it—vicars, feast days, and deadly sins. I don't care about all of that. I don't know if a vicar knows any more about God than I do."

Tom smiled as Sybil sighed and looked off into the distance. She was wearing her hair in a thick braid down her back, which made her look especially youthful. But her words proved to Tom, once again, how much wiser than her years she was, and how much deeper her understanding of the world than her level of experience in it.

Feeling his eyes on her, Sybil turned back to him. "What about you? What do you make of religion?"

Tom thought for a few moments about how to answer. Finally, he said, "Karl Marx called religion the opium of the people."

"And what did he mean by that?"

"He meant that religious belief and doctrine are used as tools by the upper classes and those in power to convince working people not to question their lot in life."

"How so?"

"Well, there's the divine right of kings to start. King George is king not because he happened to be lucky enough born to Edward VII, but because God willed it so."

"So, God wanted the king to be king so he arranged for him to be born at the right place at the right time?"

"More or less. If the king is a tyrant, but the people believe in God, they are less likely to revolt if they fear eternal damnation for questioning the decision by God to put him on the throne in the first place. But it's not just about who governs us, but how we govern ourselves as well. We're told that there is a greater reward waiting for us in God's kingdom, so we mind less the fact that there is no reward to be had here on earth. The meek are told that they shall inherit the earth so that they _stay_ meek and don't fight for the land and rights that are rightfully theirs in _this_ life."

"Is that what you believe, then? That God exists only to be a sort of manipulator of the masses?"

"I see some truth in it, but I also think it's human to want to find meaning in the things we do, to want to believe that there is a force greater than ourselves that brings all things together. I suppose I believe that there is such a force, but beyond that I don't know much."

"That's love, isn't it?"

"What's love?"

"The force that ties us all together."

Tom smiled at her. "Perhaps you should offer the homily tomorrow."

Sybil smiled. "I don't think the Reverend Mr. Travis would appreciate that."

"Well, there's another thing that's wrong with religion—no room for women at the top."

"You really are committed to the women's cause, aren't you?"

"In every way," he said, with a sly wink that made her blush slightly. "And Catholics are worse in that regard. Anglican clergy can at least count on the counsel of their wives. I've often wondered whether it's advisable to put one's spiritual needs in the hands of a man who's taken a vow of celibacy."

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Tom turned a deep shade of red. He ventured a look over at Sybil, who was trying to hold back a smile, her own cheeks blushing slightly.

"I apologize," he said, "that was egregiously inappropriate."

"Perhaps, but it was honest and true. Remember that when talking to me that's more important than propriety."

Tom grinned. "You may turn out to be the best friend I ever have."

Sybil grinned back at him. "Good. Because you're already mine."

Tom raised his eyebrows at her. There were several meanings in her words—all of them true. "That's lovely of you to say," he finally remarked.

Sybil bit her lip, wondering whether she should have made that admission in such candid terms. "You're giving Gwen a good contest, anyway," she added quietly.

"Do you really consider your housemaid a friend?"

"Of course!"

"I know you're helping her find a job, but most would be doing that simply out of charity, not friendship."

"Being charitable is all very well and good, and I think it's terrific that people make their own lives, especially women. But more than anything, I'd like Gwen to be happy. Even if her departure will make me rather sad. I'm honestly not quite sure what I'll do without her when she's gone."

"You'll have me," he offered.

Sybil smiled. They remained there enjoying one another's company in companionable silence for a while before hearing Matthew call out to them from the front steps of the church.

"There you are!"

Sybil and Tom got up from the bench and came over to meet Matthew and Edith.

"Where did you escape to?" Sybil asked.

"It was an unfortunate series of events," Edith said, blushing a bit.

"The vicar saw us and invited us into the sacristy," Matthew said. "He thought we were a young couple looking to secure a location for our wedding. It was a bit awkward trying to extricate ourselves from the conversation with our dignity intact, but we managed. On the plus side, he suggested a spot for lunch."

"Oh? Where's that?" Tom asked.

"Apparently, beyond the cemetery and across the bridge there's a hill from the top of which you can see most of the county."

"Let's get to it!" Sybil said enthusiastically.

After Tom went over to the car to get the picnic basked, the foursome set off.

* * *

Their lunch eaten, Tom and Sybil walked back down the hill to the creek to give what was left of their bread to a flock of geese wandering about near the water.

Edith was sitting on the blanket Mrs. Patmore had packed them in the picnic basket, while Matthew walked around it, perusing the brochure from the first church they'd visited, reading random tidbits he found interesting aloud.

Sybil had managed to hold Tom's attention throughout their outing, but Edith hadn't made much progress with Matthew despite various attempts to make conversation with him. He'd been nice, but he seemed rather determined to stay focused on the topic of the churches.

"I wish we could talk a little more about you," she ventured again. "What was it like growing up in Manchester?"

"There's an interesting note here about the side aisles at Kirby. They were added in the 14th century by a Bishop Richard De Warren. That's something—six hundred years of worship."

Edith smiled. "It's wonderful to think of all those men and women worshipping together through the centuries, isn't it? Dreaming and hoping much as we do, I suppose."

"The screen was a Cromwell casualty, apparently."

Edith sighed, giving up. "Was it?"

Matthew folded up the brochure and sat back down on the blanket. He looked over to Tom and Sybil and saw that they'd gone from throwing the bread scraps at the geese to throwing them at each other.

"They're quite a pair, aren't they?"

Edith looked down to where Tom and Sybil were and suddenly felt as if this whole day had been arranged for Sybil's benefit and Edith was the chaperone sent to make sure no one had too much fun.

"I wonder how Mary's getting on," Matthew said lightly after a few minutes. He hadn't meant anything by it, but if he'd been looking at Edith when he'd spoken he'd have seen her shoulders visibly droop.

"All right, I should think. Why?"

"I just wonder. Will she stay with the hunt the whole day?"

"You know Mary. She likes to be in at the kill," Edith said with an eye roll.

Matthew looked to Edith and noticed that her demeanor had changed. He frowned, knowing that his lack of attention was the cause. He didn't dislike Edith, and he was probably being too harsh with her but he was a bit at a loss as to how to keep her attentions—persistent as they were today—at bay.

"Where shall we go next?" he asked, hoping to pick her mood back up.

"Not home?"

"Oh, not yet," he said standing up. "We've time for one more at least before we lose the light."

"I underestimated your enthusiasm."

"I hope we haven't worn you out today."

"Not at all," she said, taking the hand he was offering to stand up. "I'm enjoying it. We must do it again."

"Next time, let's bring my mother. She was so jealous she made me promise she could come with us."

"Of course," Edith said, not able to contain what was clearly recognizable as a regretful sigh. "How nice that would be."

As she bent down to pick up the blanket and picnic basket, Matthew watched her, wondering if there was something he could say to fix the wreck of a day he'd obviously made for her.

"Cousin Edith?"

She, still crouching, turned her head toward him. "Yes?"

"I should probably apologize for not being better company than I've been today."

"It's all right," she said. "I know I'm not considered the best company myself." She stood holding the basket and shrugged. "I'm used to it."

She turned to start walking back down the hill, when Matthew stopped her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"I don't mean to trouble you with this knowledge," he said, "but you remind me of someone."

"Who?" Edith asked, with a puzzled expression on her face.

"You know, no doubt, that my fiancé passed?"

Edith nodded.

"You bare a slight resemblance to her. Lavinia, she, uh . . . she had similar hair color, the same fair skin."

Edith wasn't sure what to say.

Matthew went on, "More than that, Lavinia used to believe herself unworthy of the good things that happened to her. When I proposed, she was convinced it was because her father had asked me to do it and not because I really loved her. Her childhood was a difficult one, you see. Mr. Swire came into a great deal of money as a businessman as she was growing up. It gave the family a place in society, but most of the girls and later the young women she came to know didn't let her forget her family's humble beginnings. She was a rational person, and she knew she shouldn't listen to their hateful talk, but even so, over the years, she began to absorb, um . . . _internalize_ some of their criticism."

Edith looked down at her hands. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You shouldn't let anyone make you believe you won't ever be happy, even those who are family."

Edith looked back up to Matthew's kind eyes, her lips curving into a shy smile. "Thank you."

Matthew smiled. "I know I'll get married someday. I suppose I have no choice on that matter now that I'm required to have an heir."

Edith snickered.

"I'll sound self-serving saying this but it'll not be worth your trouble to wait for me to stop looking merely for a replacement for the one I lost and start looking for someone new in earnest."

"I appreciate your candor," she said. "And since you've been honest and kind with me, I won't hold it against you when you fall in love with Mary."

"I doubt that's likely," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, you will. Sooner or later, everybody does." She took his arm and pulled him along. "Now, let's go rescue the geese from these two."

Watching Tom and Sybil as she and Matthew approached, Edith thought the youngest Crawley sister might just be the first at the altar. She smiled at the possibility. Looking back to Matthew and holding his strong arm, she felt a rush of warmth and love, but not the kind that she had expected.

"Oh, Cousin Matthew, how different life would be if I'd had brothers."

Matthew laughed, and put his hand over the one holding his arm. "Well, now you have two."

"I'm glad."

"You know, Cousin Edith, even if nothing is to happen between us, I could be of help to you."

"How so?"

"Men love nothing more than the thrill of the chase, and that chase is made even more thrilling when there's competition."

Edith gave him a questioning look.

"Next time there's someone around you like, I'll show you what I mean."

* * *

"Is that one mine?"

Carson raised his hefty eyebrows and turned to see Thomas, the footman, behind him watching as Mary, Evelyn and Pamuk came in from the hunt.

"Home is the hunter, home from the hill," Robert said jovially, as he and Cora approached the group now entering the house. He looked them up and down and noticed just how muddy they were. "Heavens, you have been in the wars."

It had been an invigorating day. Despite her initial protests and internal misgivings, Mary had enjoyed herself and couldn't help but relish in the striking foreigner's continued attentions.

"Papa, this is Mr. Pamuk," she said. "My father, Lord Grantham."

"How do you do, my lord?" Pamuk said, as the two shook hands.

"Did you have a good day?" Robert asked.

"Couldn't have been better," the Turk responded with a smile, his eyes landing on Mary.

Introductions concluded, Carson approached, Thomas on his heels. "This is Thomas, sir," he said to Pamuk. "He'll be looking after you."

At that same moment, Evelyn came up to the group.

Seeing him, Mary spoke up. "Mama, you remember Mr. Napier."

"Of course. How are you?" She said with a smile.

"So kind of you to have us, Lady Grantham," Evelyn said.

"And this is Mr. Pamuk," Mary added.

Cora turned to the foreign guest "How do you do?"

"My lady," Pamuk said, taking her hand with a deep bow and kissing it gently.

Robert raised his brow slightly in amusement at Pamuk's gesture. "Well, what would you like?" he asked the group.

"Just baths," Mary said with a sigh. "We're worn out."

Thomas took this moment to step forward toward his charge. "Your cases are upstairs, sir, if you'd like to follow me."

"Yes," Pamuk said with a nod and followed the footman away from the entrance hall and up the stairs.

"Well, I hope Mary hasn't left you too exhausted," Robert said turning back to Evelyn.

"No, not a bit of it."

"I believe Carson will be showing you to your room," Cora said.

"Indeed, milady," Carson said, stepping forward. "If you'd like to follow me, sir."

Evelyn gave a slight bow to Cora and Mary and proceeded upstairs behind Carson, his own valet following closely behind.

Turning back to her daughter, Cora asked, "So how was it, really?"

"It was fine . . . enjoyable. I'm glad I went," Mary said pointedly, knowing she owed her participation in the hunt to her mother. Cora smiled knowingly.

Mary was about to head upstairs herself when the sound of the motor could be heard outside.

"Oh, that must be the girls back with Tom and Matthew," Cora said walking to the door, Mary behind her.

"That's funny," Mary said, watching as the motor kept veering on and off the driveway. "I remember Tom a much more able driver than this."

"So do I," Cora said, quietly, her brow furrowing.

But Tom wasn't driving.

As the motor got closer, Cora and Mary could see that someone else was.

"WHAT IN HEAVEN'S NAME IS EDITH DOING!?" Robert, who'd come out behind his wife and daughter, screamed out as he walked past them well into the driveway.

The motor continued its wobbly path toward the front of the house until Edith, grinning from ear to ear, brought it to a stop. Tom, next to her, saw Robert's livid expression and prepared himself for the tongue-lashing that he knew would come, even as he could barely hide his mirth. Behind them, Sybil was holding onto Matthew's arm, head buried into his shoulder and eyes shut tightly.

Sensing that the car had stopped, she opened her eyes slowly. "Is it over, then?"

Matthew stepped out quickly and let out a long sigh, as if he, too, had been holding his breath with Edith behind the wheel.

"So . . . how was the hunt?"


	17. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on Tom and religion: The baptism storyline showed us that canon Tom is a very proud Catholic, but it also made clear that his Catholic pride is tied to his patriotism ("My daughter is Irish, and she'll be Catholic like her father."), which makes sense, given that Catholicism was so closely tied to Irish culture and identity. But socialists and communists have always had very strong feelings against religion, so it felt important to add that layer to his views in this story. Superficially it may seem like a big change in character, but I think that on questions of rules and doctrine (feast days, deadly sins, etc.), canon Tom probably agreed with Sybil's view. The difference between them was that he had a personal/cultural tie to his church and she didn't, which is why she didn't mind the baby being baptized into his church—something came to mean even more to Tom after she wasn't born in Ireland.
> 
> That's a long-winded way of saying that although the Tom in this story seems more ambivalent about the Catholic church than canon Tom, the only real difference between them is that this Tom's ties to the church stem from his relationship to his parents, while canon Tom's ties to the church stem from his pride in his country. In this story, Tom's views/ties to Ireland are affected by his having been raised partly in England, but he does still feel Irish and that part of his background will come up eventually.
> 
> Also, I know there hasn't been much Matthew/Mary yet, but obviously, it's coming. The seeds of it start here.

 

**Sunday, 1:05 a.m.**

He stepped into the dark room gingerly and called out to her, but there was no response. He called out again, but again heard nothing. He held his breath and stood in silence for several minutes.

The room was empty.

He walked to the adjacent bathroom, lifted the bed sheets, opened the wardrobe, looked behind the curtains.

Nothing.

He walked over to the bed again and stood over it. He leaned over and caressed the sheets slowly, imagining what he might have done here. He picked up one of the pillows from the head of the bed, brought it to his face and took a deep breath in. The air came out in a frustrated sigh. He looked around and felt anger welling in his gut.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he dropped the pillow on the floor and proceeded to the room down the hall.

_This one will be sorry, and she'll have her sister to blame._

* * *

**Saturday, 6 p.m., seven hours earlier**

"He doesn't look Turkish at all," Gwen said.

"Well, he doesn't look like any Englishman I've ever met," Anna said with a conspiratorial smile. "Worse luck. I think he's beautiful."

"What did Lady Mary say when she went up?"

"Not much, which is rare for her. I think she's a bit taken with him."

"Or she could have still been in shock over Lady Edith's driving."

This set the maids to giggling. They were out of doors, sitting at the table by the service entrance, shortly after having taken their afternoon tea and just before preparations, upstairs and down, would have to begin for dinner.

"What are you two going on about?"

Anna and Gwen turned to see O'Brien, who'd just stepped outside and was now in the process of lighting a cigarette.

"Mr. Branson teaching Lady Edith how to drive," Anna said, still smiling at the idea.

"Driving isn't what I'd call it based on her ladyship's description," O'Brien said crossly, "veering from one side of the yard to the other like common pub drunk. God knows what that fool young man was thinking."

"Don't you like Mr. Branson, Miss O'Brien?" Gwen asked.

"No, I don't," she replied. She took a long drag off her cigarette, and then continued, "Mr. Crawley at least has started to learn to behave with some dignity, seeing as he'll be earl. Mr. Branson does and says as he pleases. Don't know how the family stands his company."

"I dare say his lordship likes him very much, as does her ladyship," Anna spoke up.

"He's a charmer, all right," O'Brien spit out. "But he got his just desserts this afternoon."

"Was his lordship very hard on him about Lady Edith?" Gwen asked, genuinely concerned, knowing that a true rift between the two men would worry Sybil.

O'Brien smirked. "Couldn't you hear him? I swear if it were night he'd have woken half the county."

"I doubt his lordship will stay angry long—he was more worried than anything."

The voice of Mr. Bates, Robert's valet, startled O'Brien, causing her to drop her cigarette as he stepped out the door.

O'Brien threw an angry glare at Bates. "Know his mind, do you?"

"Better than you," Anna said firmly.

O'Brien dug the cigarette she'd dropped into the ground with her shoe and headed back into the kitchen without another word.

Gwen watched O'Brien as she walked back inside, then turned back to Anna, who was smiling warmly at Bates. Looking back and forth between them, Gwen noticed a spark in Anna's eyes she hadn't seen before.

"So did Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley go home?" Anna asked.

"No. They intended to, I think, but his lordship asked me to send for Mr. Moseley, so they'll be changing here for dinner."

"Was that why Mrs. Hughes had us make up extra rooms? Will they be staying?" Gwen asked.

"I don't know," Bates answered.

"Well, Mr. Carson will be ringing the gong soon enough," Gwen said standing, "I'm going up to our room for a moment before Lady Sybil is back upstairs and rings to get dressed."

"We'll see you later, then," Anna said.

When Gwen got to the door, she saw that Bates had occupied the spot she'd just vacated and Anna leaned in ever so slightly. Gwen smiled to herself and, as she went inside, she wondered exactly how Anna would have described the Turk if Mr. Bates had been present.

* * *

"Is it safe?"

A grinning Sybil walked into the library, where Tom had been sitting reading for the last half-hour, since Robert had laid into him about teaching Edith how to drive.

Tom stood up with a bashful smile. "I had it coming."

"Why?" She asked coming in and sitting down on the sofa next to him. "Surely, you don't agree with him that women shouldn't drive."

"You know I don't," Tom said sitting back down, "but the Renault is a delicate machine, not to mention expensive. Considering how much I preach about curbing frivolous spending, it was thoughtless of me to have played loose and fast with it like that. Better plan would have been to teach her here, where the driveway is clear and free of obstacles and other drivers." He leaned into her and added, "And free of distractions in the form of panicking passengers."

Sybil laughed. "She could barely manage to stay on the road! I genuinely feared for my life!"

"I would never let anything happen to you," Tom replied quietly and smiled as he saw her cheeks blush slightly at his words.

Sybil looked down. After a moment her soft smile broadened into a cheeky grin. "You better be careful what you say," she said, looking up at him again. "I'll be inclined to take greater risks if I know I have a rescuer at my beck and call."

"You certainly don't need me to be bold. I'm sure you are more than capable of being your own rescuer."

"You have more confidence in me than I have in myself."

"You don't lack confidence, Sybil, only the opportunity to demonstrate that you're a brave, confident woman."

They smiled at each other.

"So will Edith's lessons to continue?" She asked after a moment.

"They will, I'm happy to report."

"How did you convince him?"

"I just said that if there's an emergency and Pratt is unavailable, it would be useful for there to be another driver in the house."

"Very sensible of you."

Sybil looked down at his hands and noticed for the first time the book he was reading.

"What have you got there?" She asked.

Tom lifted it up to show her the title page.

"A Study in Scarlet. I see I've created a monster."

"I'm afraid you have. I can't put them down."

"When I gave them to you, you said you weren't much for mysteries."

"Only because they're usually so easy to solve."

"For you, perhaps."

"Mr. Conan Doyle takes some frustrating turns sometimes, but he has a knack for writing character as well as plot. I'm enjoying them very much. Thank you for the recommendation."

"You're quite welcome."

"What about you? Did you finish The Time Machine?"

Before Sybil could answer, Mary walked in with an olive-skinned gentleman quite unlike any man Sybil had ever seen.

"Sybil, Tom," Mary said, walking toward the pair who stood as Mary and the guest approached, "This is Mr. Kemal Pamuk. He's Mr. Napier's guest from Turkey. Mr. Pamuk, this is my youngest sister, Lady Sybil, and a close family friend, Mr. Tom Branson."

"How do you do?" Pamuk asked taking Sybil's hand and bowing down to kiss it.

Sybil, surprised at the gesture, looked to Mary, who was smiling widely.

"Did you enjoy the hunt?" Sybil asked.

"Very much. It was an exciting tradition to be introduced to."

"I've been showing him around the house," Mary said.

"Which is revealing its own appealing treasures at every turn."

Tom furrowed his brow slightly at the suggestive tone of Pamuk's words, but looking at Sybil, Tom couldn't tell whether she had recognized what Tom clearly saw as an advance.

"Lady Grantham said you were here for the Albanian talks," Tom said, wishing to take Pamuk's attention away from Sybil. "Must be quite thrilling to be a part of history and play a hand in the formation of an emerging republic—that is if a republic is allowed to form. I'm not confident Sir Edward Grey and the so-called great powers will take the necessary step beyond monarchical rule. Are you of their mind, or do you see a future for countries led by the people?"

"At the moment I'm entirely unconcerned with the matter," Pamuk responded dismissively, not bothering to look at Tom with his eyes firmly fixed on Sybil. "Business has been left behind in London. There is only pleasure to be had at Downton."

After he spoke, Pamuk turned back to Mary, and Tom could see that unlike Sybil, Mary was aware of and receptive to the foreigner's subtext.

"We should continue, Mr. Pamuk," Mary said, "otherwise we won't finish before the dressing gong sounds."

"After you," he said blithely, signaling to Mary to lead the way and giving Sybil a once over as he stepped away. Neither Sybil, nor Mary noticed, but Tom did, and the plain audacity of it shocked and angered him. Tom took a step forward so as to block the foreigners view as he was leaving, and Pamuk smirked as his eyes met Tom's before finally facing forward.

"I thought Mr. Napier was the one brought here for Mary," Tom said, as he and Sybil, alone again, sat back down.

"Me too," Sybil said, "though I don't suppose I blame her for making the switch."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, a bit alarmed.

"He was terribly handsome. I don't know any other Turks, but I'd like to know more if they're all so pleasing to the eye."

Tom let out a disagreeing "Humph!" and opened his book again and set to reading.

Sybil couldn't help but grin at the abrupt turn his mood had taken. "I'm only making an objective observation."

"Good for you."

"Are you angry with me?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"I'm not angry. Why should I be angry? I'm just trying to read my book."

"Well, you seem cross all of a sudden."

"You're imagining things."

"Would it brighten your mood if I said I don't find him nearly so handsome as you?"

Tom glanced at her and then quickly went back to his book, his lips turning up into a bashful smile. "A little."

She snickered at him and stood to go. He stood also. "I'm going to see if Gwen can chat for a bit before it's time to get changed," she said.

"You never said what you thought of H.G. Wells," Tom said. "The Time Machine?"

"Oh, it's interesting, but I'm having trouble focusing."

"Why is that?"

"Any time I pick it up I feel preoccupied by the question of what I would do with such a machine—go forward or back. What would you do?"

"I'm enjoying present company too much to be interested in going anywhere else."

Sybil smiled. "I had a nice time today."

"So did I."

"I'll let you get back to your reading," Sybil said, turning to go and walking to the door. After she'd stepped out of the library, she peaked back in and watched Tom for a moment.

She smiled to herself and thought, _Who wants a Turk when there's an Irishman near?_

Sybil had only been gone from the library for a few minutes when Matthew came in.

"So you've survived Robert's tirade," Matthew said with a smile. He walked to the desk and sat down to look over some papers he'd brought in with him. He'd been talking with Carson regarding the state of the house's expenses before coming into the library.

"His bark is worse than his bite," Tom said. "But he did say I could keep teaching her if that's what she wanted."

"Well, I can't speak for Cousin Sybil, but I'll wait until Cousin Edith is a bit more expert before getting into the car with her again."

Tom laughed. "She wasn't that bad."

Matthew gave Tom a skeptical look.

"It's true! Remember that it was her first time behind the wheel," Tom said. "It took me much longer to even move forward. I would go as far as to say she's something of a natural."

Matthew smiled and went back to his papers. Tom watched him for a moment, before standing up and walking over to the desk. "So how did things go with you two?"

"Funny question coming from you."

"Me? Why?"

"I remember asking you not to leave us alone for long spells, lest things get awkward, but you didn't put up much of a fight on that front. In fact, I'd say you barely put up a fight at all. On the other hand, I am glad to know that if I ever need anything from you and you refuse to give it, all I need to do is get Cousin Sybil to ask and you'll offer it to her on a silver platter."

Tom rolled his eyes, laughing. "And what exactly did you have to fear at the hands of Cousin Edith?"

Matthew laughed lightly. "Nothing as it happens. We had a bit of a heart-to-heart and decided to be friends."

"That's good. But you should beware that this is just the start."

"Start of what?"

"You're going to be an earl. Do you honestly think fending off potential wives is going to get easier?"

Matthew sighed. "I'd rather just not think about it."

Tom waited for a moment before asking his next question. "I'm not trying to pressure you or anything, but do you think, um . . do you think you'll ever be ready to see any woman as more than a friend?"

"I'm not sure." Matthew scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. His eyes wandered around the library before landing back on Tom, who'd moved to stand directly in front of him on the other side of the desk. "I look around this house sometimes and wonder whether she would have liked living here, liked being a countess."

Tom smiled. "She'd likely have felt a bit overwhelmed by it all, but would have taken it in stride."

"She would have, except . . ."

"Except what?"

"Do you really think we would be here if she were alive?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know, but wherever she is now I have no doubt she would want you to be happy."

Matthew looked away, avoiding Tom's eyes.

"Look, you know how I feel about country living and estates like this, but I do feel like you—"

" _We_ , Tom."

Tom smiled. "Fine, _we_ are doing something good, helping the tenants and the village, as well as the family. Don't let the good feeling that comes with accomplishment cloud the fact that you'll need someone to share it all with in the long run. You think that while you remember Lavinia there's no room for anyone else, but you loved her Matthew. Do you honestly expect to ever forget her?"

"I don't know what to expect."

"Memories of Lavinia are never going away. Hard as it may be to believe now, they'll coexist with the love you'll feel for your future wife, whoever she turns out to be."

Matthew looked back at Tom with something of a weariness in his expression. "I miss her, and I also miss just being with someone. That's where I am right now."

Tom looked at Matthew for a long time. "You know you're not the only one in this house who's lost the person they were going to marry."

"I know."

"So if you ever wanted to talk to someone. . . "

"What are you trying to do, Tom?"

"I'm merely pointing out that you have more in common with her than you think you do."

Tom let his words sink in, then turned and went back to the sofa with his book.

* * *

In the months since they'd moved to Yorkshire, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had grown accustomed to dining with Robert and his family. It wasn't like dinner at home at Crawley House, but there was a familiar rhythm to it now. The formality of it seemed less foreign, less imposing.

Part of what Tom didn't like about dining among the upper classes was that it felt as if everyone was playing a part instead of behaving as their true selves. From the ritual of sitting down to wait for Carson to announce dinner, to the hushed talk around the table, to the departure of the ladies—all of it was stifling to genuine, honest interaction. That was what their first dinner at Downton Place had felt like. But now, months later, the families having fully integrated and come to truly depend on one another, the artificiality of it all had faded away. It had started to resemble a family simply sitting down to break bread together.

But that progress was not in view tonight. Tonight everything felt different.

The presence of the two gentlemen guests altered the tenor of things, and once again everyone was playing a role to the end of seeing Mary matched. Further upsetting the balance, though, was the fact that Mary herself seemed to have forgotten this, having more or less forgotten the suitor invited on her behalf and lavishing attention only on his guest. Seated across the length of the table from Mary, who was between Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk, Tom could easily see the imbalance of their interaction. It wasn't especially obvious, but having seeing Mary and Mr. Pamuk together in the library earlier, he couldn't help but notice the continuing familiarity between them.

If dinner was pleasant in any way for Tom, it was only because on this night, he'd been given the rare pleasure of a seat next to Sybil. With Edith on his other side and Matthew on the other side of Sybil, the topic of their outing had dominated talk on their end of the table. Violet, sitting next to Edith, was quick to express her opinion on Edith's new interest.

"What exactly does a lady need to do with driving?"

"I just want to try something new, granny," Edith responded. "Haven't you ever discovered a new interest?"

"My faculties are sufficient for me to entertain myself without having to look the fool behind the wheel," Violet said.

Tom smiled and spoke up for Edith, "I can assure you, Cousin Violet, she did not look foolish—"

"I beg to differ," Sybil said with a snicker.

Edith let out an annoyed huff in response.

"Oh, I don't mean I don't support you Edith," Sybil said. "But you must admit that you were not very good."

"She'll improve with practice," Tom said.

"So this is to continue?" Violet asked a bit in shock.

"Papa said it was all right," Edith said, "as long as I remain in the driveway until both Tom and Pratt consider me ready to go beyond."

"Robert, is this really wise?" Violet said, turning to her son on her other side.

"Oh, Violet, there's nothing wrong with Edith having a little fun," Cora said, smiling.

"Mama, it's not a bad idea to have another driver in the house," Robert said. "Even if it is Edith."

"Thank you for the enthusiastic support, papa," Edith said with an eye-roll.

"What do you think, Mr. Napier, about the prospect of women driving?" Cora asked Evelyn, who was sitting next to her, wanting to draw him into the conversation.

"I can't say I've thought about it at all," he replied. "Before today, I don't know that such an idea would have ever occurred to me."

"Yes, well, you don't have a resident revolutionary," Violet said. "You'll find there's no idea that hasn't occurred to Tom."

Tom blushed a bit, having been surprised by the warmth—pride, even—in Violet's tone. "I wouldn't call myself a revolutionary, not much of one anyway, only a friend to the unconventional."

"All of that and political opinions to match," Pamuk spoke up, a spark of challenge in his words. "So much contrary thought must be exhausting to you, Mr. Branson."

"It's invigorating actually," Tom said, staring him down the length of the table.

Mary watched Pamuk's jaw tighten ever so slightly, and spoke up in an effort to diffuse him. "Well, I'll stick with Pratt for the time being."

"I'm sure it's all the talk downstairs as well," Matthew said, "someone should let him know Edith's driving will not put his job in jeopardy."

"Yes, best put a lid on that, Carson," Robert said, looking up to the butler.

"Of course, sir," he responded.

"I thought electricity was the worst of it, but if women are to be on the roads, who knows what else modernity has in store for us," Violet said.

"Must you always see modern innovation as the enemy?" Isobel asked.

"Must my desire for a simpler world always meet with attacks by you?" Violet retorted.

"Oh, granny, don't get upset, I think we all appreciate the idea of a simpler world," Mary said. "Do you, Mr. Pamuk?"

"I do dream of a simpler world, as long as we can keep our trains and our dentistry."

Mary and Isobel, who was on Pamuk's other side, laughed politely in response.

After a moment, as the table moved on to other topics, Mary leaned into Pamuk and more quietly, said, "I wish I shared your enthusiasm. Our dentist is horrid."

"Why go to him, then?" He asked.

"He treated all of us when we were children. You know how the English are about these things."

"Well, the next time you feel a twinge, you must come to Istanbul."

"Wouldn't the journey be painful?"

"Sometimes we must endure a little pain in order to achieve satisfaction."

Mary shifted back toward the table, taken aback a bit by his words and the intensity of his eyes. She found him so alluring, but in his exchange with Tom she saw a momentary hardness that surprised her, and in that last comment she saw a glimpse of it again. Taking a sip of her wine, she shook her head slightly as if to chastise herself. Tom was expert at getting a rise out of people. Pamuk obviously had not liked Tom's question about the Albanian talks in the library. But he'd been charming and gracious all day. There was nothing in his last comment that she should be put off by, she told herself. _Nothing._

Turning back toward the rest of the table, she heard Evelyn say, "Lady Mary rode very well today."

"Why did you send Lynch back?" Robert asked her.

"I had my champions to left and right. It was enough."

"Did you enjoy the hunt today, Mr. Napier?" Robert asked. "Mary said you had a tremendous run."

"It was like something out of a Trollope novel."

"What about you, Mr. Pamuk?" Cora spoke up. "Was your day successful?"

"Oh, yes, Lady Grantham. I can hardly remember a better one."

Tom couldn't help but roll his eyes at Pamuk's words and was caught in the act by Matthew who threw him a questioning look. Tom tilted his head slightly as if to say, "Later."

* * *

Matthew was making his way to the parlor behind Robert, Evelyn and Pamuk when he spotted Tom coming from the other direction.

As the three men ahead of them filed in, Tom and Matthew stopped just outside.

"Where've you been?" Matthew asked.

"The library," Tom said.

"All this time?"

"You know how I hate the whole 'the gentlemen can talk openly now that the ladies have gone' nonsense. I just didn't want to deal with it tonight. I was finishing my book."

"And what was that at dinner with Mr. Pamuk?" Matthew asked.

"I don't like him."

"Why?"

"I don't know, just an impression."

"Well, Mary seems taken with him. Do you suppose it means we're to see more of him?"

"Would Robert approve of someone who wasn't English?"

"I wouldn't have thought Mary herself one to foster an interest in a foreigner, so I suppose anything is possible."

Tom laughed, and the two of the walked in to join the rest of the party.

Mary noticed them coming in and saw that they immediately went to Sybil and Edith. The familiarity and affection among them was obvious. She watched as Matthew said something that set Edith to laughing. Mary raised her eyebrows, supposing her younger sister to have had a successful day with their cousin. For reasons Mary could not pin down, in that moment, she felt a pang in her heart, not jealousy exactly, nor regret either, just an unspoken question as to what might have happened if she'd kept her frustrations to herself that first afternoon at Crawley House, if he'd not overheard her insolence. _Would things have progressed on a different course? Would she have wanted them to?_

Before she could contemplate the question, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Mr. Pamuk calling for her attention again. She smiled widely as she reengaged in her conversation with him and Evelyn as they revisited the hunt, eager to express their delight in her participation in it with them.

Across the room, standing at the hearth, Robert leaned over to Violet, who was sitting close to him.

"Mary has one more suitor tonight than we expected," he said.

"Will she judge them sensibly?" Violet asked, looking back at Robert with a skeptical smirk.

"Oh, no one's sensible at her age. Nor should they be. That's our role."

"You don't know your daughters if you think you can easily talk them out of anything," Violet responded. "You've already given into the whims of one today."

"Driving is hardly a whim, mama. I told you it will be useful."

"I can only assume Tom talked you into it."

"As a matter of fact he did, but that doesn't mean his argument was wrong."

"Well, I protested at dinner, but on second thought perhaps it'll be good for Edith. Get her out of her shell a bit. She'll need it when it's her turn in the spotlight."

"One at a time, mama, please. One at a time."

At that moment, Matthew approached them. "Cousin Robert, I meant to tell you that I spoke with Carson this afternoon, and he made the request again for the second footman. I went over the figures, and we should have enough. I would have mentioned it after dinner, but I didn't want to bother the guests with it."

"Quite right. I'm sure Carson will be happy with the news."

"I assume it'll not be too difficult to find one since a search was started before the move."

"You were the one who put a stop to it by hiring Mason as agent instead," Robert said.

Matthew smiled. "I did offer him the footman's post first."

"I can only assume he's doing fine," Robert said.

"Very well, indeed."

"His parents must be proud," Violet said. "He was a nice young man. Not so dour as the other one."

Robert laughed lightly. "Thomas does like to have his grumble."

"Since the house was still standing after a month without another footman, I didn't see the need," Matthew added. "But now that the work on the cottages has been completed with some reserve left, and Carson insists, I suppose I don't see why not. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pull Carson into the library to let him know. I just wanted to tell you first."

"Very good," Robert said.

"So you've handed the reins over completely," Violet said.

"He knows what he's doing," Robert said, watching Matthew and Carson step out of the room.

A few minutes later, Pamuk also walked out of the parlor, stealing away into a corner in hall, an unbridled eagerness in his eyes. Shortly there after, Mary followed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Is this picture really a Della Francesca?"

"I think so. The second earl brought back several paintings from—"

He interrupted her words with a furious, uninvited kiss. Mary, initially too bewildered to protest, pushed him off as she felt herself backed against the wall.

"Mr. Pamuk!" She exclaimed, as quietly as she could but still trying to convey her surprise.

"Let me come to you tonight, please," he said excitedly, his hands still holding her arms.

"I can't think what I have said that has led you to believe—"

"Please. I don't know when we'll meet again. So let it be tonight."

Pamuk leaned in to kiss her again. Mary tried pushing him back, but had little room to move, budged against the wall as she was. Instead, she turned away and felt his lips on her neck, just below her ear. He'd brought her hand to her face and forcibly turned it toward him, when a noise in the hall caused him to let go of her all together. He turned and Mary peaked over his shoulder. The little that was left of her dignity—decimated at the hands of Pamuk—drained from her completely when she saw who it was.

Matthew.

"I wonder, Mr. Pamuk, if you might go back to the parlor. I'd like to have a word with my cousin," he said flatly, betraying little emotion.

"As you can see, Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary and I are having a tête-a-tête ourselves. I'm sure she'll be happy to talk to you some other time."

Matthew looked past Pamuk to Mary. Her eyes were cast downward, but Matthew noticed her shake her head ever so slightly.

"I'm afraid I have to insist. The matter is rather urgent."

"Surely, you won't mind waiting."

"Perhaps I'll fetch Cousin Robert in the interim, as the matter pertains to him as well."

Pamuk let out a forceful breath. "No need for that. I'll leave you alone."

Brow furrowed and jaw set to contain his frustration, Pamuk entered the parlor again.

Matthew stepped forward toward Mary. "Are you all right?" He asked in a whisper.

Mary looked up for the first time since Matthew had walked into the hall. His concerned expression was too much for her. "Please make my excuses," she said and ran toward the staircase.

He chased after. "Mary!"

But she waved him off and he stopped at the bottom of the staircase and watched her make her way up alone.

Matthew walked back to the parlor, still unsure as to what had just happened. He didn't want to mention what he'd just seen to Cora or Robert, knowing that Mary would see it as a betrayed confidence, but he was worried about her. He needed a way to make sure she was all right.

Once in the parlor, Matthew noticed that Pamuk had made his way to Sybil, who apparently had been left alone. Before Matthew had gone to speak with Robert, Tom had been pulled away by Cora and Isobel from where he, Matthew, Edith and Sybil had been talking together, and with them he remained, his back turned to where Sybil stood. Edith was now at the hearth with her father, Evelyn and Violet.

Quickly, Matthew went over to Sybil and took her gently by the elbow, saying, "Cousin Sybil, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"It seems you have a need to speak with all the young ladies this evening," Pamuk said.

"It seems you do as well," Matthew replied, leading Sybil away.

"Is everything all right?" Sybil asked quietly.

"No, I'm afraid Mary has gone to bed. She wasn't feeling well. Would you let your parents know."

"Of course," she said. Sybil was about to turn to go, when Matthew caught her arm again.

"Will you go to her tonight, once we've all turned in, and make sure that everything's all right?"

"Sure, but did something happen?" Sybil asked with a concerned expression.

"It's not for me to say. I mean . . . it may have been nothing. But will you do it?"

"I will."

Again Sybil turned to go and again Matthew stopped her.

"What did Mr. Pamuk say to you just now?"

"Nothing particularly. He asked why I hadn't come on the hunt today? I didn't answer honestly, I must admit. I said I didn't like to ride."

"What would your honest answer have been?"

"There was better company to be had elsewhere."

Matthew smiled as she made her way to her parents. He looked around and saw that Pamuk had left the room. Seeing Tom come up beside him, he turned.

"You were right about Mr. Pamuk," Matthew said.

"Oh?"

"Unpleasant fellow, to be sure. But I don't think Mary will want to see him again after all."

"Thank God for that," Tom said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Thank the Turk himself."

Tom looked at Matthew curiously, but that was the last Matthew said on the matter.

* * *

Later that night, as she lay in bed, Mary was so deep in thought over the events after dinner that she didn't hear the knock at the door. She almost rolled off onto the floor in fright when she realized someone had come into her room.

"Mary?"

"Oh, God, Sybil! You scared me out of my wits."

Sybil smiled and climbed into bed and laid down next to her sister. "Is everything all right?"

Mary nodded halfheartedly.

"You don't seem very convinced."

"It's all right. The evening took a turn I was not prepared for. I feel fine, just a bit humbled is all."

Sybil bit her lip, wondering if Mary knew who had sent her. "Cousin Matthew was worried about you," she said quietly.

Mary looked over at Sybil, then at her hands. "What did he say happened?"

"Nothing. Just that you weren't feeling well. He thought I should check on you once everyone had gone to bed."

Mary took a deep breath, feeling a lump rise in her throat. A small tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and did not escape Sybil's notice.

"Oh, darling, what's wrong?"

"Have you ever felt as if everything you thought you knew was right had been turned upside down and it turns out you don't know anything at all?"

Sybil sat up. "Mary, what's happened that has you talking like this? Please tell me."

Mary sat up as well, and wiped another tear from her cheek. "It's nothing really. I don't want to burden with it. I just . . . I've realized tonight that I was wrong . . . I've been wrong about a lot of things. The way I've behaved with men . . . it invites a certain type of ridicule—"

Sybil took her sister's hand, interrupting her and speaking rapidly. "Mary, no man has a right to make you feel ridiculous, no matter your behavior. A true gentleman should be so from the first to the last."

Mary smiled, but Sybil could see it did not reach her eyes. "Even so," Mary continued, "I've realized that the only good possibility that's been presented to me I dismissed out of hand before I could even realize how good it was. I'm just a little bit sad at how stupid I've been."

"You haven't been stupid. You've been clouded by grief and mama and granny's constant meddling."

"Well, thank you for your patience with me, but please don't let me prattle on." Mary hesitated for a moment, not sure whether she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "So how did Edith make out with Cousin Matthew today?"

"Very well, I think."

Mary felt her chest tighten. "Is that so?"

"They'll not be married, I don't believe."

A quiet sigh escaped Mary's lips. "Oh, no?"

"No, but they will be friends, and I'm of the firm conviction that a clear-eyed friendship with a man is better than anything else."

"Even if it leads to nothing?"

"Why should friendship not be a sufficient end in itself? Having a friend is not nothing. You should try it."

Mary laughed. "I don't think Cousin Matthew wants to be friends with me."

Sybil smiled. "You say that so often I have to wonder if the lady—"

"Doth protest too much?"

"Doth she?"

"I _doth_ too much of everything," Mary said, and eager to avoid the question, she continued. "What about you? Surely you don't think you will continue to escape this kind of scrutiny with your debut nearing."

Sybil looked at Mary for a long moment. "Well, since we're speaking openly of friendships."

"Yes?"

"Tom and I are friends," she said slowly and quietly, curious as to her sister's reaction, which was immediate.

"You like _him_!? Oh, Sybil!"

"What's wrong with Tom?" Sybil asked indignantly.

"Well, I don't suppose there's anything _wrong_ with him, but he is rather full of himself, don't you think?"

Sybil laughed. "Terribly so! But would you believe, I find that rather attractive."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You would."

"He holds his convictions so firmly—even in the face of two so stuburn about tradition as papa and granny. And he knows and is interested in so many things—things that I want to learn about and experience. And he's the only person who doesn't mock my interest in wanting to know more than I do or to be something more than I am. He treats me like a real person, not just—"

"Not just a pretty doll he'd have his way with," Mary finished.

"Well . . . right," Sybil said, tilting her head slightly to watch Mary, who'd gotten quiet again.

Mary turned back to her sister. "I'm glad you have a good friend in Tom, Sybil, but don't rush into things. You're young. You don't know what's going to happen."

"I'm perfectly aware of my lack of knowledge about the future and everything else." Sybil hesitated for a moment, before continuing. "Will you not tell mama what I've just told you? I don't want her or anyone to make more of things between Tom and me than they are now and risk upsetting the balance, as it were."

"Your secret is safe with me," Mary said, smiling sadly.

"And I wish you wouldn't dislike Tom."

"I don't. I don't know him so well as you, but if he's captured your interest he must be a good person."

Sybil smiled brightly at her sister.

Mary returned her smile and wished she could put this moment in a box and keep it forever. But she was now too aware of the uncertainty of the future that lay ahead—uncertainty about which she'd just warned Sybil and that suddenly loomed all too menacingly over Mary herself. Sybil would be happy. That much Mary knew. But would such happiness be available to Mary after so much time wasted. Was it too late?

Sybil sensed a change in Mary's mood and asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I am, but would you fetch me a handkerchief from my wardrobe."

Sybil smiled and nodded. She hopped out of the bed and crossed the room. She'd just opened the wardrobe when someone barged into the room.

It was Pamuk.

He went to Mary's bedside so quickly, he did not see Sybil on the other side of the room.

"You must be mad!" Mary exclaimed, trying to pull herself away.

"I am. I am in the grip of madness."

"Please leave at once or—"

"Or what?" He asked threateningly.

"Or I'll beat you to a pulp!"

Pamuk was so startled by Sybil's voice behind him, he stood and, tangled on the duvet Mary had pulled over to cover herself, fell to the floor. Sybil stepped over him holding the fireplace poker over her head. Pamuk scrambled back then stood up.

"So here you are," he said, gathering himself.

"What are you talking about?" Sybil asked.

"I came to your room first," he said with a smirk.

Mary gasped and brought her hands to cover her mouth, but Sybil didn't budge. "Well, you would have met the same end because I have one of these in there too."

She swung the poker so the sharp end was sticking forward.

Pamuk stepped up to it, so it was just an inch from his chest. "You wouldn't dare use it."

"No? Test me, if you like."

He took a step forward, but all it got him was a sharp poke in the chest.

Mary saw him ball up his fists in anger and stood up behind her sister, putting her own hands over Sybil's on the poker. "Go now, Mr. Pamuk, before we use this against you."

He stepped forward again, and again was met with the sharp end of the object. The sisters would not yield their ground. He took a deep breath, then turned and walked out. Sybil ran to the door, slammed it behind him and quickly locked it. She turned and saw that Mary had put down the poker and was now kneeling on the floor crying.

"Mary, it's all right, he's gone."

"He would have ruined us! Oh, I was so stupid!"

Her words concerned Sybil. "Mary, wait, did something happen with him before."

"He tried. . . but nothing . . . Matthew stopped him," Mary said between sobs. "It was just in the hall outside the parlor."

"Oh, my dear!" Sybil pulled her sister into her as Mary continued to sob, ruing the future they would have met as outcasts now plain before Mary's eyes.

Mary pulled back. "Oh, Sybil if he'd hurt you—"

"I wouldn't have let him. And I wasn't going to let him hurt you. Everything's all right. He'll be gone tomorrow and we never have to see him again."

The sisters hugged again, and remained holding one another on the floor until Mary's sobs had calmed into soft sighs. Sybil gently pulled her sister up and sat her down on the bed. "Do you think you can sleep? Would you like me to ring for some tea?"

Mary took a deep breath. "I'm fine. But will you stay?"

"Of course. I'm just going to go check on Edith."

"I'll come with you."

Quietly, the sisters stepped out of the room. They walked down the hall to Edith's room, with Sybil holding the poker tightly. When they reached Edith's room, Sybil opened the door gently. Finding her soundly asleep, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

With no sign of Pamuk anywhere close, the sisters went back to Mary's room, where they crawled into bed and after calming themselves from the commotion fell asleep, with the door locked and the fireplace poker between them.

They were woken up early the next morning by a light knocking on the door. Mary went over to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Anna, milady."

Mary opened the door to let her in. "Sybil's spent the night here, in case anyone missed her and was worried."

"No, I don't think anybody has. It's very early yet. I just came up to tell you the news."

"News?"

"About Mr. Pamuk."

Mary and Sybil looked at one another in alarm.

"What happened?" Sybil asked. "Has he done something?"

"No, it's . . . well, there's no good way of saying this . . . apparently, he had some sort of heart attack or something over night."

"What is it, Anna?" Mary asked.

"He's dead."


	18. The calm after the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the rest of series one, episode three and the aftermath of Pamuk's death. Speaking of which, just so it's clear: Pamuk died of natural causes. That's what I always assumed happened on the show. A massive heart attack or stroke or an aneurysm can, in fact, happen to a young person who is seemingly healthy.

 

Tom and Matthew hadn't needed to spend the night at Downton Abbey, but it was fortunate that they did.

The evening party had threatened to disperse immediately after Mary had gone upstairs, but Cora, wanting to keep Evelyn entertained even in her absence, asked Tom and Matthew to converse with him for a while. Eventually, when Isobel was ready to return home, Pratt drove her alone while the two young men stayed behind. Violet took her leave shortly thereafter.

Tom, Matthew and Evelyn ended up in the billiard room late into the night. By the time they were finally ready to turn in, Tom and Matthew learned that Pratt had gone to his cottage for the night and didn't see a need to wake him for a ride back to Crawley House. The maids having gone to the trouble of making up rooms for them, the two decided they'd not let the work go to waste. There was also the nagging feeling in the back of Matthew's mind regarding Pamuk's behavior toward Mary and his continued presence in the house. Matthew resolved in his own mind to stay until the man was gone for good.

He'd only just woken when he heard a loud clatter.

Matthew and Tom had stayed in the bachelor's corridor, along with Evelyn and Pamuk. So when Thomas, on stepping into the Turkish guest's room and seeing his dead body on the floor, dropped the tray of breakfast silver he'd been carrying, the other three young gentlemen also sleeping in that wing of the house came quickly to investigate.

Tom was the first in the room. "Mother of God! What's wrong with him?"

Thomas, still somewhat in shock, could barely stammer out a response. "I . . . I don't . . .I just came in with the tray—he was like this."

Tom slowly walked over to the corpse and bent down to grab his wrist to try to find a pulse. He looked up to see Matthew and Evelyn at the door. All of them waited in silence, but there was no pulse to be found. Tom slowly lowered the dead man's hand down to the floor again and shook his head.

Evelyn stepped in and kneeled down by Pamuk's head. He looked up to the rest of the room and, not addressing anyone in particular, said, "What am I going to tell them?"

"We should get him back on the bed," Tom said quietly.

Matthew walked the rest of the way in and put his hand on Thomas's shoulder, startling the footman with the gesture. "Go down and tell Carson to send someone for Dr. Clarkson, then have a hall boy come stand guard by the door until the rest of the house is alerted. No one should see him like this."

Thomas left quickly without another word.

Evelyn moved to lift Pamuk up and Tom came over to help him. They deposited him on the bed and Tom carefully pulled the duvet over his head.

"What do you suppose happened?" Evelyn asked.

Tom shrugged. "Cardiac arrest, stroke, vertigo caused him to fall and hit his head on the floor—any number of things."

"We'll speak on your behalf as to his treatment here," Matthew said quietly to Evelyn, "if it comes to that."

Evelyn nodded. "I appreciate it, thank you." He let out a sigh. "It's going to be a long day. I best get dressed."

Tom and Matthew watched him as he left the room.

"How do you think the family is going to react?" Tom asked.

"I honestly don't know," Matthew responded.

Downstairs, Thomas tried to explain the turn of events to a shocked staff gathered around the dining table in the servants' hall. He'd barely finished talking when Carson quickly called Joseph and Peter, the house's hall boys. Joseph was dispatched to fetch the doctor and Peter was to go upstairs.

Once Joseph had run out the door, Carson turned back to face a bewildered audience. "Well, don't just stand there! Plenty of work still in need of doing!"

The crowd quickly went about their duties, exchanging looks of shock and sadness at the sudden death of the foreigner they'd all been so intrigued by the day before. Carson was about to head back to his office when he was stopped by Peter.

"Mr. Carson, sir. I don't know which room the gentleman was staying in to go guard it. Don't want to go in where someone may still be sleeping."

Before Carson could answer, Anna stepped up behind Peter. "I'll take him, Mr. Carson. Gwen and I made up the room."

"Very well, thank you, Anna," Carson replied.

The two headed up the stairs and found Tom and Matthew waiting for them. Anna picked up the tray Thomas had dropped and the young men went back to their rooms to change, leaving Peter standing guard at the door. Anna headed back to the servants hall, but when she got to the top of the back stairs, she changed course.

Mary had not yet rung, but Anna, suddenly worried about her charge's reaction, decided she needed to deliver the news herself—even if it meant waking Lady Mary to do it. Once at Mary's door, Anna set the tray down on the floor and knocked lightly.

* * *

Sybil quietly opened the door to her room and looked around.

_He_ was _here_.

The doors to the wardrobe were open, the curtains were askew and the bed sheets had been pulled back from the bed. A pillow was lying in the middle of the floor. Sybil took a step inside and closed the door behind her. She walked over to the pillow, picked it up and hugged it to herself. Then, she sat down on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes.

Sybil tried to picture the moment Pamuk entered Mary's room, to remember what went through her mind as she watched him launch himself at her sister, and to recapture the feeling that coursed through her and compelled her to run to the fireplace for the poker. But she couldn't. Trying to think of last night's events now, they only felt like a dream, or a vivid story someone had told her but that she hadn't actually lived herself. In fact, only a single detail remained as vivid to her as when she'd lived it—her assurance to Mary that they would never see Mr. Pamuk again. But as she thought of them now, those words were fraught with new meaning.

Sybil had encountered death before.

There was her grandfather Levinson whose death had affected her mother deeply, but who was, to Sybil, only a person who existed in the abstract. His death had barely caused a ripple in her life. After all, how could she miss someone who had been absent most of her life, whom she had met only once and who remained even now just a collection of secondhand memories.

Then there was her grandfather Crawley, someone with whom she shared a closer bond, but whose death still only affected her in so far as it affected those around her.

And then, of course, there were her cousins James and Patrick. No deaths had had a more significant effect on her life than theirs, not merely because they were loved ones she had known and been in close contact with her whole life, but also because of the consequences of their deaths that her family had had to live with. Consequences that were playing out even now.

And yet, in this moment, it did not seem to Sybil as if those deaths had affected her so viscerally as Pamuk's was affecting her now. James and Patrick had perished somewhere far away. There was no distance in this case. What's more, in his final hours of life, Ladies Sybil and Mary Crawley saw first hand an apparently deceptive youthful vigor in one Mr. Kemal Pamuk of Istanbul, Turkey. Sybil was old enough to understand exactly what he had been after in coming to her room and Mary's. And what greater expression of life—for good or ill—is there than that?

He was arrogant, aggressive, _alive_. And now he wasn't. The seeming paradox in it shook Sybil. Pamuk had sought to assert himself, to act in a way that would have likely changed her life, but his sudden death suggested he was not even the master of his own.

Sybil supposed she should infer from his dying that her own fate was out of her control, but as of this morning that was something she was no longer willing to accept. Not after last night. Because the truth was, she _had_ changed her fate. She had defended herself and her sister. She had not allowed him to dictate the outcome. Tom had told Sybil that very afternoon that he thought her brave and confident, and only lacking in an chance to demonstrate that she was. Pamuk, for better or for worse, had given her one. She was not grateful for Pamuk's invasion of her sanctuary, nor of his assault, literal and figurative, on her sister's confidence, neither did she believe she owed him anything, but Sybil hoped that wherever Pamuk was, he knew that though he'd intended to subdue her, he'd actually done the opposite.

Because whether or not future events in her life turned out in her favor, Sybil would know, from now on, that she wasn't powerless.

* * *

Mary's reaction to Pamuk's death was markedly different from her youngest sister's.

In a few hours, he would be gone from the house and in a few days, perhaps, forgotten altogether. Or so Mary kept telling herself in an effort to be convinced that eventually she could pretend that none of it—not the hunt, not the flirting, not the horrifying intrusion, not his death—had ever happened.

After learning about Pamuk's death, Mary and Sybil had decided there was no point in telling anyone what he had done. It seemed senseless to besmirch the reputation of a man who could no longer hurt them when the consequences of so doing would be needless worry for their parents and diplomatic complications for Evelyn. It had been Mary's stated preference, and Sybil accepted her sister's request. After all, in the assessment of the previous evening's events, Sybil had the advantage of not having exchanged but a few words with Pamuk. Her impression of him, based largely on their confrontation in Mary's room, was negative, and so she had nothing to fear in the memory of what had happened. This was not possible for Mary.

Mary had been taken by his good looks, had been won over by his charm, and had felt emboldened, falsely as it turned out, by his attentions. He had stolen a kiss from her, and if it had been left at that, Mary would have eventually convinced herself that she had invited it. Mary might have even come to see it, in time, as a happy memory. So despite his now obvious ill intentions, she could not divorce her enjoyment of his company from what he later revealed to be his true expectations. She was faultless—for who could blame a young woman instructed to be enticing to gentlemen for being just that. But she did not see herself as faultless. So while she wished she could simply erase the last two days from her mind, she also couldn't stop thinking about them. And not just because of Pamuk.

There was Evelyn, a sweet, unassuming man to whom she'd barely given a chance. And who now was surely ready to dismiss her, given her swift dismissal of him.

And there was her cousin, to whom she'd given no chance at all. She had once considered Matthew not good enough for her, and now, in wake of the blow her confidence had taken, she wondered whether the opposite was in fact true.

Looking at herself in her vanity mirror, already dressed for the day, Mary considered how Matthew and Evelyn would react if they knew of what Pamuk had tried to do—and how they would react if he had been successful?

She stood from her seat and resolved to go downstairs and face whatever there was for her to face. She was angry at Pamuk and at herself and she was sad at the same time. But she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts, not when her thoughts continually caused her to question everything she knew of herself, of what she wanted and of _who_ she wanted.

As she walked down the main staircase, Mary saw Evelyn walking across the hall in the direction of the library.

"I imagine you've heard what's happened," he said gravely.

"Yes."

He looked down and started fidgeting with his hands. "Terrible thing. Awful. Ghastly for your parents. I don't suppose I shall ever make it up to them."

"It wasn't your fault."

He took a tentative step toward where Mary stood on the landing. "Well, I brought him here. If it isn't my fault, whose is it?"

Mary avoided his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath to collect herself. "I suppose if it hadn't happened here, it would . . . um, it would have happened elsewhere. Better to deal with an uncomfortable situation among friends."

Evelyn blinked in surprise at her words. He took another step forward, wondering if perhaps all was not lost. "I was wondering if you might show me the gardens before I go. We could get some fresh air."

The request took Mary aback. He was giving her a fresh start, when she'd assumed they'd both wash their hands of the failed match and move on. But for Mary this morning was too soon to start again.

"I won't, if you'll forgive me" she responded quickly, "I ought to s—stay and help Mama."

"Of course," Evelyn said quietly. He bowed slightly and turned to leave. But he'd only taken a single step before he turned again. "I am so sorry about all this. I've told your father I'll deal with the embassy. There won't be any more annoyance for you."

"Thank you."

"Actually, he was a terribly nice fellow. I wish I could have known him better. I took him on as a duty, but I liked him more and more the longer I knew him."

Mary felt a lump rising in her throat and tears burning in her eyes. She wanted to relieve herself of the anger she felt at Pamuk and relieve Evelyn of the guilt he felt over Pamuk's death, but there was nothing she could say short of the revelation she'd resolved not to make, a revelation that might alter Evelyn's opinion of her. She felt paralyzed.

Mistaking her emotion for grief over the one she'd obviously preferred, Evelyn added quietly, "Perhaps you saw his qualities for yourself."

Mary wiped an errant tear from her cheek and walked down the rest of the way to be at eye level with Evelyn, not wanting his last impression of her to be her interest in Pamuk. "Mr. Napier, please don't mistake me. I would walk out with you if I believed myself capable of matching your grace on a day like today, but I am a foolish girl who does not know her mind or heart. Mr. Pamuk's attentions . . . well . . ." She took a deep breath, then continued. "My vanity was flattered, and that's bad enough on its own. I won't have you believe me a fickle person and make myself a further disappointment to you by pretending I did not ignore you yesterday. You are a good man, and I hope we may be friends."

The words were spoken from the heart. It was as honest as Mary had ever been with any man.

Evelyn's lips turned up into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He _was_ disappointed, but not in her. By having preferred Pamuk over him, Mary had undercut his own vanity and, worse, dashed his hopes. He believed now that she was only trying to soften the blow. Perhaps if he knew what had happened, if he'd been privy to the conversation she'd shared with her sister last night, he'd see in her sincerity an invitation not to give up, not yet. As it was, he couldn't comprehend anything beyond what he believed she meant by the word "friend."

"Thank you, Lady Mary. You are too hard on yourself," he said finally.

"So are you."

He bowed again, and then turned and was gone.

_Maybe if Pamuk hadn't come_ , Mary thought, watching him walk away, _things might have turned out differently_.

But having said her piece, Mary would not second-guess herself. Pamuk's appearance, his actions, revealed to Mary an improbable truth. She was not ready for marriage—whatever her mother and grandmother might say to the contrary. She needed time and patience, and if Evelyn Napier could not hear that in her words just now, then he was not the man she was meant for.

* * *

After leaving Lady Mary at the stairs, Evelyn walked to the library, where he found Robert, Tom and Matthew.

Hearing him enter, Robert stood. "Matthew and Tom have told me you've squared things away with Dr. Clarkson."

"Yes, he said the hospital workers will be by for the body in short order. They'll make the arrangements for the train ride back to London. I'll have arrived before and be there to receive it."

"Were you able to collect all his things?" Robert asked.

"Yes, my man took care of everything. Lord Grantham, I'm terribly sorry about all this."

"Who could have foreseen it?" Robert said quietly.

Evelyn turned to Matthew and Tom. "Gentlemen, I wish we had met under kinder circumstances."

Tom stepped forward to shake Evelyn's hand and Matthew followed suit.

"Best of luck on the continuing talks," Tom said. "I hope this doesn't derail things for you."

"No, I shouldn't think so. And, please, don't hesitate to let me know when you're next in London." He paused for a moment. "Is Lady Grantham down? I'd like to say my goodbyes."

"I think she went to get some fresh air, but she shouldn't be far," Robert said.

"I'll see her on my way out then."

"Pratt is on his way, my lord."

The men turned to see Carson at the door.

"I suppose that's my cue," Evelyn said with a small smile, turning to go.

Out of the library, Evelyn went into the entrance hall, where he met his valet, who, upon seeing the expression on his employer's face immediately held up his coat. Evelyn half-smiled at the fact that the man knew him so well. He turned to slip the coat on, then took his hat and gloves from him and stepped outside.

Seeing Cora in the distance, he walked toward her.

"Lady Grantham!" Evelyn called out. "I've come to say goodbye. They're bringing the car around to take me to the station."

"Have you said goodbye to Mary?"

"I have."

"Will we be seeing you here again?" She asked, hopeful.

"Nothing would give me more pleasure, but I'm afraid I'm a little busy at the moment," he began, but seeing Cora's eyes, he faltered. He could continue the charade, or he could be honest. Mary had been honest. It had not been in his favor, but in a sense, she had freed herself from the artifice that had brought him here in the first place. Suddenly he felt the need to do the same.

"I wonder if I might risk embarrassing you," he began again, "because I should like to make myself clear. The truth is, Lady Grantham, I'm not a vain man. I do not consider myself a very interesting person, but I feel it's important that my future wife should think me so. A woman who finds me boring could never love me, and I believe marriage should be based on love." He laughed at himself, at the idea. "At least at the start," he finished quietly.

Cora smiled, realizing what he was telling her, the words and the sudden familiarity they conveyed making her wish that he had been enough for her daughter.

"Thank you for your faith in me, Mr. Napier. Your instincts do you credit. Good luck to you."

As she watched him walk away, Cora furrowed her brow, wondering what exactly had been said between Evelyn and Mary this morning.

Even having been the one who'd initiated the possibility between them, Mary had lost interest rather quickly, which made Cora wonder whether her daughter had merely been going through the motions. Cora supposed that the foreigner's looks and charms had done a number on Mary, but Cora had also believed Mary more sure of herself than to be swept off her feet quite so easily—especially when there was a goal in mind. In that moment, Cora blamed what she mistakenly perceived as her daughter's lingering immaturity for what had happened, or failed to happen, with Evelyn. Frustrated, but resolved to let things be for the time being, Cora walked back to the house.

Once inside, Cora found her daughters sitting quietly in the parlor. She walked in and sat down, smiling quietly, not wanting to stir their thoughts. She hadn't been there five minutes when Carson stepped in to announce Violet.

"The Dowager Countess," he said solemnly.

"Oh, my dears, is it really true?" She exclaimed, walking in. "I—I can't believe it. Last night he looked so well." She walked over to the armchair and to sit down, adding, "Of course, it would happen to a foreigner. It's typical."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary snapped.

"I'm not being ridiculous," Violet said indignantly. "No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house. Especially someone they didn't even know."

"Oh, Granny," Sybil spoke up, looking up from her embroidery. "Even the English aren't in control of everything."

"Well, I hope we're in control of something, if only ourselves."

"But we're not!" Mary insisted. "Don't you see that? We're not in control of anything at all!"

Mary walked out of the room angrily before anyone had a chance to react to her outburst. Her anger had largely dissipated since her talk with Evelyn, but what lingered had been stoked by Violet's characteristic superiority. It was all Mary could stand.

Cora sighed. "Edith, go and tell Mary to come back at once and apologize to her grandmother."

Edith stood, but Violet stopped her.

"No, leave her alone," Violet said. "She's had a shock. We all have. Just let her rest."

Sybil stood and moved to follow her sister. "I'll go talk to her."

Cora grabbed Sybil's hand. "Sybil, I think it's best if—"

"It's all right, mama," Sybil said. "I know what's wrong."

Cora looked at Sybil curiously but let her go.

"Excuse me," Sybil said, stepping out of the room after Mary.

Knowing that a restless mind always took her oldest sister out of doors, Sybil walked through the entrance hall to the main doors. But stepping outside, Sybil saw no sign of Mary. She walked out into the driveway, and the start of the path to the village, but still couldn't see her. She sighed.

Sybil considered walking around to the gardens, where it was perhaps more likely Mary might have gone, but then wondered whether solitude might not be what Mary needed after all. Sybil understood what Mary was thinking and feeling more than her mother and grandmother would, but that fact wouldn't necessarily make her own hovering any less bothersome to her sister. Mary was nothing if not the selfish guardian of her own mind. Sybil respected that and acknowledged that she would come around on her own time.

As Sybil turned to go back to the house, she saw Tom stepping out of the doors.

She smiled, happy and hopeful for the first time that day.

"I thought you'd gone," she said as he walked in her direction. "At least, I assumed as much when I didn't see you at breakfast."

Tom lifted his hat in greeting. "Matthew and I stayed with Mr. Napier while Dr. Clarkson was here. Didn't want him to shoulder the burden of seeing to, um . . . well, to the remains alone."

"That was kind of you."

Tom shrugged. "Ugly business." He paused and his expression softened. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "I'm sure it was a shock."

"It was . . . he was so young."

"As Aunt Isobel would say, in the midst of life, we are in death."

"He was about Patrick's age if I were to guess," Sybil said. "But he and Cousin James died in a great tragedy that took many others . That fact offered a measure of . . . comfort? That's not the right word."

"It is, actually. I understand your meaning, anyway. Patrick and James weren't alone at the time of their deaths, and you and your family weren't alone in your grief for them. There _is_ comfort to be found in that. Suffering is easier to cope with when it may be shared. The specificity of a death like this, especially when the affected party is essentially a stranger to us . . . well, it feels rather cruel, doesn't it?"

"Do you suppose he suffered much?"

"Dr. Clarkson said it was likely a stroke, a blood clot or a blood vessel rupturing in his brain. It would have been instantaneous."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for not sparing me the details."

Tom smiled in return. "I should be off or mam will head to church without me. She likes to go to the early service."

"I'll walk to the gate with you," Sybil said, and the two fell into step together.

"What have you got there?" Tom asked pointing to the swatch of fabric in her hands.

"Oh, it's silly," Sybil said hiding it behind her. "I'm afraid the pastimes allowed for women are not very interesting. I do it when I want to keep my mind from wandering but I'm feeling too restless for a book."

"May I see it?"

Reluctantly, Sybil handed over her work. It was an embroidery of a bouquet of bluebells. "They're my favorite flower. Though I've not really done them justice, I'm afraid."

Tom smiled at the work, clearly that of an unsteady hand. "Your faculties are probably just waiting to be given a greater office to unleash their full potential."

They stopped when they reached the gate and stood silently for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Tom handed her embroidery back to her.

Finally, Sybil said, "I'd like to thank you for what you said yesterday, in the library."

"Which part?"

"About me being brave and confident."

"It didn't need me saying it to be true, but nevertheless, you are most welcome."

He smiled at her and Sybil felt a rush of affection that begged her to show him how much his friendship meant to her. Before Sybil realized what she was doing, she took two steps forward and wrapped her arms around his midsection. Tom was momentarily startled at the gesture, but after a moment returned the embrace. Sybil closed her eyes as she turned her head and leaned into his strong shoulder, feeling his arms wrap around her tightly and his fingers tangle in the tips of her hair, which hung in a long pony tail down to the middle of her back.

If a fear of death in youth had bothered either of them that morning, now it was gone.

Sybil stepped away, her cheeks blushing slightly. His too.

"You also said you wouldn't ever let anything happen to me," she said.

He nodded, still a bit too stunned to speak.

"Well, I won't ever let anything happen to _you_. So we'll both be safe from everything that may happen."

They laughed at the absurdity of what she'd said, but found comfort in it just the same.

Without any more words they parted.

* * *

 

On the other side of the house, Matthew stepped out to walk around the gardens. He hadn't explored this area of the grounds all that much and wanted to get away from the house for a bit after the unpleasantness of the morning. Tom had asked Matthew if he'd wanted to walk home together, but Matthew remained resolute in his decision to remain there until Mr. Pamuk was out of the house.

"There's not really much to see this time of year."

Matthew turned to see Mary coming up behind him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said.

"It's all right."

"It's really quite beautiful in the spring."

"I can imagine."

Mary and Matthew looked at one another for a long moment.

"Cousin Mary—"

"I should—"

They laughed softly. He nodded his head, gesturing for her to speak.

"I must apologize for leaving so hastily last night. It was terribly rude. Especially considering what you'd just saved me from."

"Please don't concern yourself with that." Matthew looked down for a moment. "I won't make assumptions as to his intentions—"

"Then you are too kind," Mary cut in.

Matthew narrowed his eyes at her, then continued, "but I hope he did not hurt you, physically or otherwise."

"He didn't, not terribly. None of that matters now, anyway. Though if your opinion of me was hurt by it, I _am_ sorry for that."

"I could never hold one man's unsavory behavior against you."

"And my behavior? You can't deny that I have been less than welcoming to you. If you do deny it you'll only be insulting my intelligence."

Matthew couldn't help but smile. "In that case, I will accept an apology if one is offered, but will not demand one. Your resentment regarding our . . . _situation_ is not unfounded."

Mary sighed. "I am sorry. If it makes you feel better, it was never about you. I resented Patrick for being heir just the same."

"Do you miss him?"

The question surprised Mary, but sensing nothing behind it but a sincere curiosity, she answered as honestly as she could. "I do," she said, adding with a smile, "insufferable though he could be."

Matthew smiled, warmly.

"And you?" She asked. "Do you miss _her_?"

Matthew nodded. "Some days more than others. It used to be painful—thinking of her. Now not so much."

"Do you think she would have liked it here?"

"I'm not sure. She lived in a part of my life that was so unlike how things are now that I sometimes have difficulty reconciling the two."

"But you don't regret coming here, doing your part to save the estate?" Mary asked tentatively.

He smiled. "No, I don't."

"Well, as disingenuous as it may sound now, given everything I've said before, I am glad you are here. You'll find I'm not the easiest person to convince about anything, but when I see good I come around."

Matthew said nothing in response, but merely looked at her with an expression Mary couldn't decipher. Feeling exhausted from the roller coaster of emotions she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, she took a deep breath, and spoke again to excuse herself.

"I think I'll go back inside" she said. "I'm afraid I've used up my good graces for the day, such as they are this morning and I wouldn't want you to bore you with my continued company."

Matthew laughed. "Cousin Mary, even when you are unpleasant, you are never boring."

A sparkle came into Mary's eyes. "You flatter me Cousin Matthew," she said, turning to walk back inside.

* * *

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to stay there for good!"

"Didn't Aunt Isobel tell you what happened? I thought Lord Grantham sent a message," Tom said coming into the kitchen at Crawley House, where his mother had been waiting in her Sunday best for the walk to church.

"She did," Claire said, standing. "I didn't realize it would take so long to get it all sorted out."

"Well, we're on our way now aren't we?" He said, smiling playfully.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. "You're in a surprisingly good mood, given the day's events."

"I mean no disrespect to the dead, but yes, I am."

"Any particular reason?"

"Would you believe me if I said that proximity to death has inspired me to live life to the fullest?"

"No, I wouldn't" Claire said with a smile. "But I suppose you'll tell me the real reason when you're ready."

Tom laughed. "You know me too well, mam."


	19. Christmas 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As was mentioned in the last chapter, there's a new footman coming so Alfred will be joining the staff earlier than the timeline of the show. He'll still be O'Brien's nephew, though he won't create the tension between O'Brien and Thomas that occurred on the show.

 

**December 1912**

In the few weeks after Mr. Evelyn Napier and Mr. Kemal Pamuk's visit, as November gave way to December and Christmastide, spirits around Downton Abbey brightened. If the absence of James and Patrick on the first Christmas since they'd perished on the Titanic saddened anyone in the family, the presence of the new cousins helped soothe any lingering grief. The Reginald Crawley family, in turn, enjoyed their first holidays in Yorkshire thoroughly, never thinking of or missing, not even for a minute, the city they had left behind. Christmas Eve at Crawley House, in fact, was a more lively affair than normal on this year with the initiation of Moseley into the family's unorthodox celebration.

As Isobel explained to Moseley, Tom began to sleep in his own room next to Matthew's in the Manchester house the year they started school, primarily in an effort to help the nanny save time as she helped two unruly youngsters get ready every morning. But the move also cemented Tom's place in Reginald's heart as his second son, and on the first Christmas that followed, the man simply would not hear of sitting down to dinner without both of the boys he loved so dear. Isobel, not wanting to supplant Claire Branson completely in Tom's life, argued to her husband that the holidays were a time the boy should spend with her.

"Well, if Tommy must dine with his mother, then she shall have to dine with us," was Reginald's curt reply.

Isobel had been pleased by the compromise, but it posed a new problem. She didn't want to leave the maid alone in the servants' quarters on such an occasion or be seen as an ungenerous employer. And so the maid was invited as well. Thus, the tradition began. Over the years, the event became less of a formal dinner and more of an open house, with Reginald occasionally inviting associates and employees from his medical practice. It was always done on Christmas Eve to give guests and staff the opportunity for time off on Christmas Day if they so desired. Even as a young boy, Tom always understood the line that separated his mother from Isobel and Reginald, but those merry nights spent with everyone he knew and loved in one room were the happiest of his childhood and taught him early on how very artificial the separation of the classes truly was.

Many years later, at Crawley House, the prospect of sharing a holiday meal with his employer might have shocked a butler more intent on adhering to the proper rules of high society, but in the months he'd been in their employ, Moseley had come to embrace the Reginald Crawley family's progressive view of country life. Once his duties on behalf of the young gentlemen settled into a routine, he came to enjoy them highly, and despite Mrs. Branson and Ivy's own initial resistance to his presence, he had made himself essential to them as well, as they did their work around the house.

Moseley sometimes saw or met members of the staff from the big house around the village, but he spoke with them only rarely. Moseley knew that the earl and countess were not yet aware of Tom's parentage and that Isobel and Mrs. Branson didn't want to draw attention to that particular detail of Tom's life, lest it affect his prospects. But Moseley also had come to understand that the housekeeper and his mistress were not guarding a secret so much as they were protecting their own happy home from the intrusion of others. And now that he had been welcomed into their fold, he did not want to let any disturbance into their peaceful existence either.

Isobel considered carefully whether to mention Christmas Eve to Robert and Cora and offer an invitation, but ultimately she decided against it, wanting to keep things in the family at least this, their first year of what she'd come to call their adventure up north. Still, she could not refuse Robert and Cora's invitation to dine at Downton Abbey on Christmas Day, happily accepting on behalf of herself and her sons. And it was on that day that Isobel learned of the Robert Crawley family's own version of social "mixing," as Violet referred to it.

The annual servants ball would be held on New Year's Eve, and not only were Tom, Matthew and Isobel expected to attend, so too were the servant residents of Crawley House. When it was mentioned during dinner, Tom and Isobel quickly exchanged glances that promised a later conversation about what that would entail. But the conversation—when it happened the next day and during which Tom insisted he would not go and pretend Claire was anyone except his mother—was rendered moot when Claire fell ill with a cold a few days before the night of the ball. Tom might have thought it was her way of avoiding the whole question were it not for how well he knew his mother hated being laid up in bed sick.

So on the day before the ball, Tom and Matthew, off from work until after the new year, headed over to the big house to discuss several things with Robert, including an update on who'd be coming to the ball from Crawley House. William would also be meeting them there to give Robert an end of the year update on the estate.

It was the first time William would be returning to the house as something other than a footman.

* * *

As Tom and Matthew were making their way to the house, Sybil was sitting in her room tying a ribbon around the box in which she'd placed her Christmas gift for Tom. They had agreed to exchange gifts after Christmas and away from the scrutiny of their relatives, a measure that was probably unnecessary since they had also agreed to only buy one another books in order to, in Sybil's words, "keep things simple." Sybil had felt silly making that suggestion, but Tom understood her desire for their attachment to blossom naturally and not be hurried along by the definitions and trappings of conventional romance, at least as defined by Sybil's family. He also pointed out the very real possibility that they'd have given one another books as gifts anyway.

Their friendship had become something they both treasured and protected closely. And though that word— _romance_ —hadn't entered into conversation or even been especially prominent in either one's thoughts, in their later years, both of them would see that this had been how it started.

Sybil had finished and was holding the box up to admire her handy work when there was a light knock on her door. She quickly stood to put the box in her wardrobe before saying, "Come in!"

It was Gwen, wearing a smile as big as Sybil had ever seen on her. She came into the room holding a letter in her hands. "This came today," she said handing the letter over to Sybil.

Sybil opened the letter and read it. She brightened as she came to understand its purpose: Gwen had been invited to interview for the secretarial position she'd inquired about in the fall.

"I knew they would want to see you!" Sybil said excitedly.

"Well, it's your reference what's done it," Gwen said, but her smiled turned to concern as she continued. "But how am I going to get to Thirsk? They won't let me take a day off."

It didn't take Sybil long to find a solution. "You're going to be ill," she said. "They can't stop you being ill."

"What?"

"What happens when someone downstairs catches cold?" Sybil asked rhetorically, holding her hands behind her.

"Mrs. Hughes sends them up to their room to sleep," Gwen said with a sheepish smile.

"So you'll fake sick, and we'll find a way to get there!"

"There is something else."

"What's that?" Sybil asked.

Gwen moved to sit on the bed. "I don't know if you're aware, but the new footman started today."

"Oh, I didn't know. What's his name?"

"Alfred Nugent. He's Miss O'Brien's nephew. He was in last week for an interview with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. Anna and I were outside his office waiting for Mrs. Hughes as they were interviewing him, and, well, it occurred to me . . . I've never really done that before, had an interview, that is."

"How did you get this job?"

"I started as a scullery maid when I was fifteen at a house run by a housekeeper who knew my mother as a child. She gave me the job to help my parents, and after a year, she recommended me for this one. There was no interview."

"Oh my," Sybil said, sitting next to Gwen.

"You see, milady, even if I make it to the location, I won't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, Gwen, don't lose heart when you're so close. You did very well on your course, which means you have the skills. You just have to learn how to present yourself well."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Respond, and let them know you'll take the interview. Once it's scheduled, we'll figure out the best way to prepare."

Gwen smiled, reassured. "Thank you, milady. I couldn't have gotten this far without your help."

"We're not there yet, but I know you can do it."

Gwen stood up. "I best get back to work."

"Here," Sybil said, standing and handing back the letter. "Return it and we'll go from there."

Gwen smiled and turned to leave. She'd made it to the door when she turned back. "Everyone downstairs is quite looking forward to tomorrow."

"I'm looking forward to is as well," Sybil said with a smile.

"Do you think Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley are good dancers?"

"I suppose we'll find out," Sybil responded.

Gwen stepped out without another word and smiled to herself about the slight blush she noticed on Sybil's cheeks when dancing and Mr. Branson had been mentioned in the same breath.

* * *

 

Downstairs in the parlor Violet and Cora were discussing, once again, Mary's prospects for marriage. After the failure with Napier, both had noticed that Mary's enthusiasm for accepting social invitations had waned. Cora couldn't also help but observe that Mary was no longer as tense nor as dissatisfied with life as she had been in the months immediately following first Patrick's death and later the announcement that Matthew would be coming to Yorkshire to take his place as heir.

This softening in her daughter's demeanor eased Cora's concerns about Mary's well being and made her wonder whether she'd been wrong to push Mary so hard when it came to making a match. Still, she wanted her daughter to be taken care of, so Cora submitted to Violet's insistence to get Mary settled as soon as possible.

"How about some house parties?" Violet asked, after the two had been quietly thinking about how to encourage Mary to be more social.

"She's been asked to one next month by Lady Ann McNair," Cora responded.

Violet's face wrinkled into a look of disapproval. "That's a terrible idea. She doesn't know anyone under a hundred."

"I might send her over to visit my aunt. She could get to know New York."

"Oh, I don't think things are quite that desperate. What do you think accounts for this sudden desire to be such a recluse?"

Cora laughed. "Oh, it's not quite so bad as you describe it. She was so often out and about after the loss of James and Patrick, when was it probably still too fresh. It obviously took a toll on her. I'm afraid we underestimated how much their deaths affected her. She seems more comfortable now than before. Maybe next season will be more fruitful."

"I hope you're right. Poor Mary. I do hope she's not given up."

"I wouldn't say she has, not yet."

"And what of Edith?" Violet asked with a sigh. "Her time looms of the horizon."

"She tried with Matthew, but there was no match to be made between him and her, either. He seems very much the determined bachelor, at least for the time being."

"Pity he came to us as a near-widower."

"He's a good man. He'll make a good choice when the time comes."

"At least Sybil still has a season here at home. To think of worrying of three at once!"

Cora laughed softly. "Perhaps we shouldn't worry about any of them at all. Let us wave our white flag of surrender and let nature and fate take their course."

Violet looked at Cora sternly. "Don't be defeatist, dear. It's very middle class."

* * *

 

As footman, William had opened the front door for the former estate agent, Jarvis, many times. And yet, as he approached Downton Abbey, he couldn't help but veer toward the service entrance that he had used so many times. He did so partly out of habit, partly out of a desire to see the friends he had not seen in quite some time and partly out of a need to prove to them that despite his new position, he did not see himself above their station—something he was afraid at least some among the staff might believe.

The yard outside the servants' hall was empty as he neared the door. He could only assume everyone was working on preparations for luncheon in a few hours. William took a deep breath as he put his hand on the door and opened it.

Indeed, there was a flurry of activity as the hall boys swept the area just outside the kitchen while the scullery maid was cleaning the serving dishes on the table. Mrs. Patmore came out of the kitchen to bark out an instruction at her, but it stayed lodged in her throat as she caught sight of William, who was standing just inside the door, now unsure as to whether he should have come in this way after all.

"Oh my God!" She exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth. "Look at the proper gent that's just walked in!"

She walked toward him with a proud smile. Mrs. Hughes came into the room and on seeing William also beamed at how well he looked.

"How nice that you've come to see us, William," Mrs. Hughes said. "Are you here to meet with his lordship and Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson?"

"I am," he said sheepishly. "Just thought I'd pop by and see how you all were first."

"You're looking very fine," Mrs. Hughes said. "Your new position suits you."

"I'm not sure how suited I am for it, but I'm learning."

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Patmore cut in. "The young gentlemen would not have hired you if they'd not found you up to the job."

Just then, Daisy walked in and for the first time since he'd come in William allowed himself a full smile.

"William!" She said, eyes wide at the changes in him. "I can't believe it's you."

"Now, Daisy, he's estate agent now, so he's Mr. Mason," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Don't fret about that, Mrs. Hughes," William said. "I reckon I'll always be William to my friends."

"Well, get going you," Mrs. Patmore said, pushing William along. "Don't go and keep them waiting or you'll find yourself down here again with us."

William smiled. "That wouldn't be so bad, Mrs. Patmore."

"Don't tempt fate, boy," Mrs. Patmore responded with alarm. "You've made something of yourself and made us proud. Does no good to look back."

"Well, then," William said quietly, giving the women a hesitant, nervous bow and headed toward the stairs.

"Will you be coming to the servants ball tomorrow?" Daisy called out quickly.

William brightened again. "Yes, I will be."

* * *

 

"I must admit, he does have a good handle on things," Robert said to Matthew and Tom after their meeting with William had concluded and he had gone.

"I know you can't help but think of him as a footman," Matthew said, "but remember that in the year you were away from Downton, he was here, working the land."

"And we couldn't have found someone better acquainted with the rest of the tenants," Tom added.

"Well, he's young and will be in place for some time, so we'll have some continuity. I hate the bother of finding new employees."

"What other post do you have to look to?" Matthew asked. "I thought the second footman had been hired."

"Oh yes, he began this week as I understand," Robert replied. "No, this has to do with mama. Her chauffer Taylor is taking his retirement."

"What are his plans?" Matthew asked.

"Apparently, he wants to run a tea shop," Robert answered. "I cannot feel it will make for a very restful retirement, can you, Carson? You're about Taylor's age."

The three men looked to the butler, who was standing at attention at the door. "I would rather be put to death, my lord."

"Quite so," Robert said, raising his eyebrows at Carson's candid response.

Tom laughed. "Your willingness not to mince words is to be admired, Carson." Turning back to Robert, he added, "I imagine Cousin Violet doesn't take easily to such changes."

Robert rolled his eyes. "I can't say as she does, and it's up to me to bother with finding a new man."

"If you'd like, I'd be happy to take on the search, Robert."

"Would you mind terribly? You'd be ridding me of quite a burden. I doubt mama will second-guess your choice so much as she would mine. I'll tell Carson to send you the replies to our inquiry."

Tom nodded, and just as he did Sybil came into the library.

Matthew and Tom, who'd been sitting on the sofa, stood as she said brightly, "Good morning, everyone."

"Sybil, I thought you'd gone into Ripon with Mary and Edith," Robert said.

"They were going to the dressmaker for fittings, and that always takes such a dreadfully long time," she said. Looking around to all of them she added drily, "Not that any of you would know anything about that."

Tom snickered in response.

"Did you need something?" Robert asked.

"I was just coming to fetch a book, but I can come back if you're busy," Sybil said.

"Actually, I think we've wrapped everything up, haven't we?" Matthew asked. "I need to be going in any case, I told mother I'd go with her to the hospital this afternoon and I'd like to see to some things at home before luncheon."

"I take it she is enjoying her role as board president?" Robert asked.

Matthew smiled, "Very much, perhaps more than Dr. Clarkson is enjoying it."

Robert smiled. "Well, we'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," Matthew said and with a quick bow turned and was gone.

Sitting back down at his desk, Robert said, "Sybil, mama is in the parlor, if you see her will you let her know Tom will be taking care of the interviews for her new chauffer?"

"You are?" Sybil said turning to Tom, an idea quickly churning in her mind.

Tom smiled and nodded.

"Would you do me a great favor?" Sybil asked excitedly. "Well, not me, but Gwen?"

"You're not riling her up again to leave us are you?" Robert asked.

"Papa! You're so unforgiving! She has an interview for a secretarial post, but she needs to prepare. If Tom could help, I'm certain she would be offered the job."

"I don't mind doing it, Robert, if that's your concern," Tom said.

Robert smiled indulgently at the pair of rabble-rousers and stood. "Fine, then, but do see that she doesn't neglect her _current_ work."

"Thank you, papa."

Robert headed to the door, and stopped at the door to address Carson. "I'm going to rest for a bit before luncheon. Please have Bates come up before it's served."

With that Robert left, Carson leaving behind him to deliver the message.

Sybil and Tom smiled at one another. She came over to the sofa and they both sat.

"Thank you for agreeing," Sybil said. "She's not done a proper interview before."

"I'm happy to help. Ask when she's next off and we'll spend an afternoon on it."

"I do hope she can find a job. Will it be possible, do you think?"

Tom smiled. "With you as her champion, I don't see how she can fail."

"I'm afraid you give me too much credit, but I'll accept the compliment just the same."

"Well, I should head back as well," he said, standing. "Before I left, mam was preparing a list of tasks she wanted me to do for her."

"Do you have to go so soon?" Sybil asked, also getting to her feet. "I ask because I wonder if I could give you your Christmas present now?"

"Certainly," Tom said. "Actually, I have yours as well."

Sybil looked around where he'd been sitting. "Where?" She asked confused.

Tom laughed and walked over to one of the shelves, stuck his hand behind a row of books and pulled out a parcel—larger than her present to him, Sybil noticed immediately.

"That looks suspiciously like more than one. I thought we agreed to—"

"It's one book, I assure you."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "All right. I'll go fetch yours."

"I'll wait here."

Sybil turned to go, then immediately turned around again.

"Was it very cold outside when you walked here?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"If you walk on the path to the village, just before the gate, there's another that breaks off toward the creek. We could meet there, by the banks."

"OK. I'll set off then," he said and moved to leave.

After he'd gone, Sybil ran up to her room for her coat and hat and the box she'd wrapped that morning. Seeing her mother in the hall as she headed out, Sybil called out to her, "It's terribly nice out, mama, I'm going for a walk," without stopping, in an effort to head off any questions.

Cora watched her go out and furrowed her brow for a moment but then shrugged and continued on her way without another thought.

Sybil made the walk as quickly as her feet would take her, slowing down only at the sight of him taking off his coat and hat and setting them on a rock just off the bank of the creek.

"Hi," she said quietly as she approached, now a bit nervous about having suggested what now seemed a rather intimate rendezvous.

He smiled and pointed to the rock, where he'd draped his coat, meaning for her to sit.

"Won't you be cold?"

"It's actually rather mild out for a December morning."

Sybil sat down and took her hat off, setting it next to his.

Once she was settled, he offered her the parcel. Sybil set his present down by her feet and set to opening hers, quickly tearing through the wrapping. Lifting the top of the box, she saw a stack of eight thin books.

She glanced at him through the sides of her eyes, smiling, as she placed the box on her lap and picked up the first. "You said it was just one."

"It is, technically" he responded, a serene smile on his face.

Sybil opened the small volume to the first page of text.

_Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress._

She recognized it immediately.

"Tom! This is—"

"Middlemarch," he said, his expression now turning into a grin. "In its original serialized form. Eight volumes in all."

"But this is my . . . "

"Favorite book. I know."

Sybil looked at him in awe, trying to contain the feeling of butterflies flying around in her chest. "How did you figure it out?"

"The copy in the library at Downton Place had a very worn spine, so I recognized it easily when I saw it in the library here. I assumed it must mean a lot to a member of the family if he or she bothered to bring such an old copy back. Given the story, that could only have been you."

Sybil smiled, still feeling slightly overwhelmed. "Deductive reasoning, just like Sherlock Holmes."

Tom cheeks reddened a bit in embarrassment. "It was just a guess."

Sybil hugged the eight small volumes to her chest and took a deep breath. Upon exhaling she looked back up at him and a small tear escaped the side of her eye. He stepped forward and wiped it from her cheek gently with his index finger.

"They are meant to make you happy," he said quietly.

"They do."

Sybil put the books back in their box, picked up his gift and handed it over to him. "I admit here and now that this will not measure up."

He smiled as he unwrapped it. "I'll be the judge of that."

Tom opened the box and pulled out a small, leather bound book with no writing on the cover. Sybil watched him closely as he opened it and leafed through the pages. Stopping in the middle to read, he smiled.

"This is Katherine Tynan's poetry."

Sybil nodded. "It's a collection curated by Yeats. They are translated into Irish in the back."

Tom flipped forward and his smile grew wider. He looked up at her and the spark in his eye made her feel proud of herself.

"Will you read one?" She asked.

"Now?"

"When else?"

He laughed and paged through the book to pick one at random.

_The Only Child_ _  
_ _Lest he miss other children, lo!_ _  
_ _His angel is his playfellow._ _  
_ _A riotous angel two years old,_ _  
_ _With wings of rose and curls of gold._

_There on the nursery floor together_ _  
_ _They play when it is rainy weather,_ _  
_ _Building brick castles with much pain,_ _  
_ _Only to knock them down again._

_Two golden heads together look_ _  
_ _An hour long o'er a picture-book,_ _  
_ _Or, tired of being good and still,_ _  
_ _They play at horses with good will._

_And when the boy laughs you shall hear_ _  
_ _Another laughter silver-clear,_ _  
_ _Sweeter than music of the skies,_ _  
_ _Or harps, or birds of Paradise._

_Two golden heads one pillow press,_ _  
_ _Two rosebuds shut for heaviness._ _  
_ _The wings of one are round the other_ _  
_ _Lest chill befall his tender brother._

_All day, with forethought mild and grave,_ _  
_ _The little angel's quick to save._ _  
_ _And still outruns with tender haste_ _  
_ _The adventurous feet that go too fast._

_From draughts, from fire, from cold and stings_ _  
_ _Wraps him within his gauzy wings;_ _  
_ _And knows his father's pride, and shares_ _  
_ _His happy mother's tears and prayers._

After he finished, Sybil said quietly, "That was lovely."

Without looking up he flipped through the book again. Then, he handed it to Sybil. "Now you."

She smiled taking it from him. She was about to start when she stopped herself and bit her lip.

"Is there something wrong?" He asked.

"Do you suppose this is all a bit too romantic? You know, for two _friends_?"

Tom laughed, then straightened his face into an overly serious expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Matthew and I recite poetry to one another all the time."

Sybil let out a hearty laugh, releasing all the pressure and nervousness she was feeling. She cleared her throat loudly, making him laugh, and began to read.

And so they sat until they'd gone through almost the entire book.

Yes, it was romantic, but what did that matter when it was so much fun.


	20. The Servants' Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the servants' ball and will bring in a bit more of the episode four dialogue and one snippet, between Carson and Mary, from episode three. Trying to write scenes within an event where there are so many people around is a bit of a challenge. I've basically distilled the night into a series of vignettes. I hope it's not too disjointed.

 

"Are you sure you don't want someone to stay with you?" Tom asked his bedridden mother for what seemed to her like the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"For the last time," Claire said, stopping for a moment to blow her nose before continuing, "Ivy's made me some tea. I'm going to drink it and go to sleep. I won't have you stay and miss the fun, and I won't have you make Ivy stay when she's been counting the minutes to this blessed affair for days."

Tom smiled. "Fine, but if you think you're getting out of it next year—"

"I know, I know," Claire said. "You'll make me go even if it means tying me to the top of the motor. Now be off with you!"

Tom stood from where he was sitting on the bed and kissed the top of his mother's head. "Happy New Year, mam."

"Happy New Year, my Tommy," she said holding on to his hand. "May it bring you all the happiness in the world."

Tom squeezed her hand and took his leave. He turned to her once more when he got to the door and laughed as she waved him off with an exasperated look.

After leaving his mother's room, Tom made his way through the house and out to the front yard, where everyone—Matthew, Isobel, Moseley and Ivy—was waiting for Pratt.

"Now, Ivy, Moseley tells me that this will be your first ball?" Isobel asked the young maid, as Tom approached.

"Oh, yes, mum," Ivy responded, the excitement visible in her eyes. "My parents wouldn't let me go to dances back home in Manchester. The closest I've come was dancing at my brother's wedding when I was sixteen, three years ago now."

"It's certainly nice of the Crawleys to hold such an event," Isobel said. "I don't suppose the young people working at Downton have much chance to get out and enjoy themselves."

"I shouldn't think so, mum" Moseley said in response.

"Here comes Pratt now," Matthew said as the motor could be seen in the distance. Turning back to the group gathered, he asked, "Are we all going to fit?"

"Someone will have to ride with Pratt up front," Tom said, "but it should be just enough space."

As soon as the chauffer pulled up to Crawley House, the party boarded the automobile, with Moseley taking the space next to Pratt, Tom and Matthew the rear-facing seat directly behind them and Isobel and Ivy the seat in the back. Once everyone was settled in, Pratt set off back toward the big house. Moseley having been sent on the occasional errand to Downton Abbey, Ivy was the only one among the group who had never seen the house before. It was not nearly so impressive when approached at a time of night that allowed darkness to obscure its size, but nevertheless, she let out an audible gasp when she caught sight of it.

"Don't be intimidated, my dear," Isobel said, leaning into her with a smile. "You're just as good as the young women who work here—better, even, seeing as you have to manage you know who's moods on your own."

Ivy laughed for a moment, but then her brow furrowed. "What if someone asks about her?" She asked quietly, nodding her head toward Tom, who was talking with Matthew.

"Mrs. _Connelly_ is ill," Isobel whispered, not wanting to get Tom stirred up about the subject. "But I doubt anyone will—certainly not after they see you in your lovely holiday frock."

Ivy smiled, grateful for the encouragement.

The motor made its way up the driveway, and Pratt, ever mindful of protocol, stopped first at the front door to drop off Isobel, Matthew and Tom. He asked the servants to remain with him so they could make the much shorter walk from the garage to the service entrance, rather than have to go all the way around the house on foot. Once the car was parked appropriately, Pratt excused himself and headed to his cottage to change out of his livery and into a suit for the ball, and Ivy and Moseley headed up to the entrance.

When they had made it to the door, Moseley turned to Ivy with a smile. "Ready?"

"As ever," she answered quietly

He opened the door and peaked his head in. He motioned for her to follow him into the servants' hall where about two dozen of the staff had gathered and were milling about and chatting eagerly. The loud din in the room immediately ceased as everyone turned to see the new arrivals.

"Good evening to you all. I've met some of you, but I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Joseph Moseley, Crawley House butler and valet to Misters Crawley and Branson. This is our housemaid Ivy Smith."

Mrs. Hughes stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Moseley. It's nice to see you again. We'll be going up shortly. You may leave your coats by the door there."

Moseley took Ivy's coat and hat, then removed his own and hung it on the hook Mrs. Hughes had pointed to. Just as he'd done that, Carson came down the staircase and announced, "The ballroom is ready."

The crowd shifted to start moving forward but was stopped by Carson's voice again.

"And may I remind everyone to behave with the dignity and honor that the house deserves. His lordship has been kind enough to invite us to enjoy ourselves with the family tonight. Let us not repay his generosity with drunken buffoonery."

There was a murmur of giggles among the crowd. Ivy looked around to see if she could spot anyone that might not meet Mr. Carson's unyieldingly high expectations. Doing so, she noticed the estate agent, Mr. Mason, who had come to dinner at Crawley House several times in the last few months. He was speaking to a small, brown-haired girl, who didn't look much older than Ivy was. As they were all out of livery, Ivy could not guess as to anyone's position on the staff. The crowd slowly began filing up the stairs, and Ivy caught the eye of a tall, red haired young man, who smiled at her. She looked away immediately to hide the slight blush rising in her cheeks. After a moment, Moseley signaled for her to step ahead of him, and as she did so, she felt someone at her elbow.

It was Anna, who offered kindly, "Welcome to Downton Abbey."

* * *

Upstairs, Matthew, Isobel and Tom, upon entering the house, had proceeded to the parlor, where they found Cora, Edith, Violet and Sybil. The four had been chatting after dinner, which had been a simple affair served in the small dining room so the family could help themselves, as they would with breakfast, while the staff prepared for the festivities. Robert, who always liked the family to enter the ball together, had gone off in search of Mary.

It was a reality that, for months, Robert had not wanted to address, but things had been cool between him and his eldest daughter since the loss of Downton more than a year prior. The death of his heir and the arrival of Matthew had not helped matters. Violet and Cora had wanted him to fight the expressed wishes of his father in an effort—a futile one really, given how little money there was left—to make Mary an heiress and improve her chances of a good marriage. But Robert could not turn his back on his legacy, not when he'd been such a poor steward of it to begin with. Given all of that, Robert understood Mary's attitude at first. But now that they were back at Downton, he was confident in Matthew and Tom's work to reinvigorate the estate and village and felt good about the future. And for the first time in more than a year, he believed that whatever 1913 would bring, there would be happiness in which he could share with the daughter he knew he'd become a disappointment to.

Mary had been standing at the windows of the library since shortly after dinner. With the Pamuk affair behind her and any thought of marriage pushed aside for the time being, she'd been in a bright mood through most of the holidays. But this day was different. For the first time since she could remember, Mary couldn't anticipate what a new year would hold for her. So rather than face down the unknown, Mary allowed herself to indulge in a bit of nostalgia, even while chastising herself for the rank sentimentality of it all. Thinking back to when she was a child, Mary remembered how much she had loved New Year's Eve and the servants' ball. Starting at eight years of age, her parents had allowed her to stay up and share one dance with Carson, during which the butler indulged his favorite girl as she would tell him all her plans for the new year. It was a tradition that continued until age fourteen, when Mary received her first invitation to a country ball. The ball was at the home of friends of the family, and though she was still not out, she barely sat down all night.

The experience awoke Mary to the attention of her peers, of the people in society who crowned beautiful girls like her with their praise, of those who wore titles grander than hers, and of those who whispered in her ear about the marvelous summer four years hence when she would bow before their majesties and be feted by London society for the first time. Suddenly, her chatty dances with the butler seemed inconsequential and meaningless, and though Mary continued to attend the servants' ball, she no longer danced with anyone but her father. Carson, always the consummate professional, never let on if his feelings were hurt, and the truth was that they weren't. He understood that Mary was learning her place in society. If anything, he took pride in her ascendance in the opinion of those whose opinions mattered.

In time, though, Mary came to miss dancing with him. She had now spent four seasons among London society, and she'd learned in that time that opinions are fickle, especially among those who have little better to do than gossip about the marriageability of certain young ladies. She remained as popular as ever, but only superficially so. Her circumstances had changed and so, it seemed, had the proverbial tide of good favor. It had taken losing a fortune that had never been truly hers for Mary to understand that despite her beauty, despite whatever attributes others might consider of the highest importance, nothing mattered like money in the search for a husband. And money was the one thing that she couldn't talk about. That knowledge coupled with her acknowledgement as to her heart's trepidation about being married made Mary more at peace about the current state of things and about her decision to stop worrying about finding a husband, but it didn't offer any insight as to what would happen the following season. She would never show it, but it scared Mary that she could no longer be sure life would turn out exactly as she expected.

These were the thoughts her mind had landed on when Robert found her.

"Here you are," he said quietly as he approached and leaned at the edge of the window next to where she was looking out into the dark.

"Here I am."

"The servants should be up by now. We should go in and start the festivities."

"Have Matthew, Isobel and Tom arrived?"

"Only just. They were coming into the parlor as I came to look for you."

"I wonder if they ever thought this is where they would be at the end of the year when it started."

"Is this where you thought _you_ would be?" Robert asked carefully.

Mary looked over at her father from the sides of her eyes.

"I suppose that was a silly question," he conceded with a smile.

"I wouldn't have thought two months ago this is where I would be, let alone twelve."

"Are you happy, my dear? I know I've put you through so much, but I do want nothing more than for you to be happy—you and Edith and Sybil."

"The definition of what happy is keeps changing," Mary said. "For now, I would be glad if things would simply settle into a routine once again."

"I believe they will."

Mary turned to face her father. "You're very happy with Matthew here, aren't you?"

"I am," Robert said. "Him and Tom both."

Mary thought of Sybil at the mention of Tom and couldn't keep her lips from turning into a slight smile thinking about what her father would think of the young man if Robert knew of the feelings Tom inspired in his youngest daughter.

"No sense in keeping everyone waiting," Mary said turning to go.

"Mary?"

She turned to see an anxious look on her father's face.

"Do you believe my affection for Matthew and Tom is an unfavorable reflection on you?" He asked.

She looked down at her hands. "They are the sons you always wanted."

"But you are my daughter," he said taking a step toward her. "You are my darling daughter, and I love you, hard as it is for an Englishman to say the words."

"And yet as the entail was being sorted out, while mama and granny looked to my interests, the only one who never stuck up for me in all of it was you. Why?"

Robert closed the rest of the distance between them and took one of her hands in his. "If I had made my own fortune and bought Downton for myself, it should be yours without question. But I did not. My fortune was the work of others who labored to build a great dynasty. I was a custodian, my dear, never an owner. I did not have the right to destroy their work or impoverish that dynasty, and in my carelessness that is precisely what I did. I was not worthy of nor up to the task I was set. Taking Matthew's inherited fortune to save Downton and giving him the reins was all I could do to ensure the seat would live on. Having failed the past so miserably, I could not abandon the future."

Mary pulled her hand away and turned back to the window. "So I'm just to find a husband and get out of the way?"

"I know you believe that I _chose_ to give Downton to Matthew instead of you, and that if I'd not done so, by marrying someone of means you might have saved it on your own, but my hands were tied. And even if the impossible had been made possible and the entail broken, well . . . you don't understand the state things were in. Your mother's fortune was all but gone. The resolution of the entail in your favor would have only put more pressure on you regarding a match and ultimately might have placed in your hands the very difficult decision to sell this house I know you treasure as I do. I sought to protect you from that disappointment. It was my prerogative as a father. Perhaps in time you will understand it."

Mary looked at her father again, tears welling in her eyes. "I understand now, I just . . . I love this house so much, and happy as I am to be back here, I sometimes wish I hadn't had to return knowing that I must leave again."

"You could stay here if you married Matthew."

"You know my character, father. I'd never marry any man that I was told to. I'm stubborn. I wish I wasn't, but I am." She let our a mirthless laugh, adding, "Besides, you don't know whether Matthew would have me, and I won't have him suffer the indignity of you pushing him into it."

"Then I shall try to make these years here happy for you, for all of us, but you must try as well."

Mary sighed and smiled, a bit sadly. "I will."

Robert offered his arm to his daughter, and she took it. Together they walked to join the rest of the family so the ball could finally begin.

* * *

In keeping with tradition, which reserved the first dance, always a waltz, for the earl to dance with the housekeeper of the house and the countess with the butler, Robert and Mrs. Hughes along with Cora and Carson officially launched the evening into motion. When their dance finished, the floor was open. Upon arrival, Tom and Matthew had been warned by Cora that, given the numbers by which the women of the house outnumbered the men, they would be expected to take few rests throughout the night. So the two wasted no time in getting into the spirit of things.

Matthew, on Cora's request, invited Miss O'Brien to the dance floor. Tom intended to ask Ivy to dance, but as he approached her, he saw that she had been spoken for. Alfred, the new footman, guided her to the dance floor by the hand, and Ivy could only shrug her shoulders at Tom in delighted bewilderment. He smiled, happy to see her enjoying herself. Tom walked to where Sybil was, but where he'd expected an eager partner, Sybil took his arm only in order to escort him back around the room.

"We can't dance with the night still so young! Don't you understand, Tom, that the very best part of dancing is the anticipation?" She asked him playfully.

Tom looked at her with a furrowed brow. "You've not had very good partners, if that's what you think," was his wry reply.

Sybil rolled her eyes at him, grinning all the while as she led him to Gwen. After officially introducing her two best friends to one another, Sybil watched with a smile as Tom led Gwen around the floor. He did look terribly handsome this evening. If she'd turned down his invitation to dance, it was only because she knew she'd not want to let him go once they started. The sight of him and Gwen interacting in such an informal manner made Sybil long for the time when Gwen would no longer be in her parents' employ and when Gwen might finally be convinced to do away with the formalities between them so they could be friends and nothing else.

Gwen had grown more nervous about her job prospects upon hearing from Sybil first that Tom would be helping her prepare and second that because Sybil had spoken with Tom about it in Carson's presence, Gwen could not fake sick to attend the interview. Carson would see to it that she be given the appropriate time off, but that knowledge only served to worry Gwen regarding what the other maids—and Mr. Carson himself and Mrs. Hughes—might think of her desire to leave.

She explained as much to Tom as they danced, after he mentioned how much he was looking forward to supporting her in her effort to rise above her station.

"Has anyone said or done something to make life more difficult for you?" He asked.

"No, not specifically," Gwen said. "I just worry that's all."

"Well, don't," he said with a smile. "I understand you don't want to find yourself with no job at all, but don't bother too much with what others think. You've already done the hard part, and that's learning something new."

"But what if I try and I don't get the job?" she asked anxiously.

"Well, then you'll still have your job here, which is exactly where you'll be if you don't try at all. So you've lost nothing."

"Except a bit of pride," she said ruefully.

Tom grinned. "You'll find as you get older, Miss Dawson, that pride gets stronger the more knocks it takes. The most painful one's the first."

Gwen laughed and thought about how often Sybil had told her of his irrepressible confidence. Indeed, it was quite contagious.

Gwen didn't ever give herself much room to dream, but that night—the dancing, the punch, the joy of being with those she'd come to see as her family away from home—conspired against her and later, when she went to bed, she did so thinking about what her life might be like many years hence, when she was an established middle class woman with a good job and when she would be proud to have her friends Sybil and Tom to tea as often as she wanted.

* * *

For his second visit to Downton Abbey in as many days, William, once again, had come into the house through the service entrance. He'd wondered whether he was disrespecting the family by doing so, but ultimately, he settled on the fact that he was an employee still. And anyway, he wanted to break the ice with his former colleagues before the ball began. He was happily welcomed by them all, with the exception of Thomas and Miss O'Brien, of course, but they did not ever happily welcome anyone or anything.

Daisy, the one whom William was only too willing to admit was the most dear to his heart, seemed happy to see him, just as she'd done the day before. She and everyone else who'd known him before surrounded him upon arrival and asked all sorts of questions about his work as agent for the estate. The attention was a bit startling for someone who'd once been trained to fade into the background, and as they moved up the stairs into the ballroom, frustratingly, it kept William from stepping away from the conversation and casually asking Daisy to dance.

After the fourth or fifth number, there was finally a lull in the conversation, and the group that had surrounded him, began to dwindle. In fact, only Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Bates remained.

Feeling a bit nervous, William turned to Mr. Bates, who had always been a supportive caring friend. "Is Daisy going to dance tonight, do you think?"

Bates smiled. "Why don't you ask her? She should enjoy herself with how hard Mrs. Patmore is on her all the time."

Thomas walked by at that moment, and exchanged looks with Mr. Bates. There had never been much love lost between the two, and William could see that even a year later that remained the case.

"What's it to you?" Bates asked Thomas, whose face was pulled into its usual grim expression.

"Nothing," he said with a half-hearted shrug.

Daisy had gone over with Anna to talk with Ivy. Seeing her come back toward the group, William summoned his courage. "Daisy, I was hoping that—"

"Would you like to dance with me, Daisy?" Thomas asked, cutting in and smiling as pleasantly as he could manage.

"Do you mean it?" Daisy asked wide-eyed.

Thomas held out his arm, and the young kitchen maid took it and followed him onto the dance floor.

Bates rolled his eyes. "Bastard."

"Don't fret, Mr. Bates," William said. "I'm not much of a dancer anyway."

Trying to retain his dignity, William excused himself and walked over to the table where the punch and biscuits were. He served himself a cup and was about to take a drink, when he saw Mrs. Hughes behind him. He offered her the cup and she took it with a small smile. William poured another and seeing her raise her glass to him, clinked hers with his and took a sip.

"You mustn't let Thomas get you down," she said quietly. "He's just jealous. Just look at how far you've come."

"It isn't very far, really, and what good is it when I can't help but keep looking back."

Mrs. Hughes followed his line of sight to where Thomas was dancing with a grinning Daisy.

"She's a foolish girl, and she doesn't deserve you," Mrs. Hughes said, taking another sip of punch. "Though, why am I encouraging you? Forget all that for ten years at least."

"Ten years?"

"How old are you, William?"

"I'll be twenty-two this coming year."

"Do you know that some men wait until they're twice that to even consider marriage? You're young and you have many good years left in you—more, now that you've got a good job and benefactors like Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson, who will look out for your interests and value your hard work. Do yourself a favor and focus on the opportunity they've given you. Make the most of it, and one day when you're standing in front of _her_ or whatever girl is on your mind just then, you'll have something to offer beyond an invitation to dance. If she's smart she'll see that what's in your heart is worth more than Thomas's nice looks."

William couldn't help but smile. "You're a kind woman, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know how this house would run without you. I don't, truly."

She lifted up her glass to him again, but instead of clinking it, he took it from her and put it down on the table along with his. Then, he offered his hand and nodded toward the dancers.

"What do you say?" William asked, his expression brightening.

"Rascal," Mrs. Hughes said shaking her head, but taking his hand and letting him lead her out anyway.

* * *

After Miss O'Brien, Matthew had taken a turn with Anna, then Cora, then Mrs. Patmore, then Ivy, then his mother. He very much needed a break, but as he walked over to the punch with his mother, he saw Edith holding a cup and looking at him eagerly.

His shoulders drooped a bit and he laughed softly. "Surely, you've seen how hard I've been working and are willing to give me a rest before I have to start again."

Edith crinkled her brow. "It figures that I'm the first you will say no to," she said, but he could hear in her tone that she was teasing him. "Here," she said, handing him the cup.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "You could always ask one of the hall boys to dance with you."

Edith rolled her eyes. "I'm awkward enough without having to dance with boys who are shorter than me."

"So it's all about you, then?"

"Isn't dancing always about the woman?"

"I suppose you're right, though I'd be happy to let you take the lead if you'd like and make it all about me."

Edith considered his words. "Perhaps that's my problem with gentlemen."

"What's that?"

"I would _very much_ like to lead, but how many would allow for that. As many as would allow their wives to drive, and _that_ , I dare say, is not a large number."

"We all need our ways of narrowing down our options, as it were. The man who truly enjoys being driven around by a woman is the man for you."

"I'm afraid men do the narrowing themselves by looking at me."

Matthew scoffed. "What did I say about listening to other people?"

Edith shrugged sheepishly. "You said not to."

"Well, then."

"I've always found the prospect of a new year frightening, so I'm reverting to my old self. It's a self-preservational instinct. No getting my hopes up about what's to come."

Matthew took one last pull of the punch Edith had poured for him and set the cup down. He extended his hand to her, and smiling, she placed hers in his. "You yourself said life would be different with brothers," he said as they walked to the dance floor. "Here I am. There is Tom, God help us,"—Matthew pointed to where Tom was pulling Violet, exasperated, but clearly enjoying herself, in circles—"and here is a new year to test the theory."

"Do you really think it will be?" Edith asked, shyly. "Different, I mean? And better?"

"I'm sure of it," Matthew said, twirling Edith playfully and making her laugh in the process.

1913 was not quite here and already Edith was having more fun than she'd imagined.

Mary watched a bit wistfully as Matthew and Edith danced. She and Matthew had come to something of a truce, but she had not yet achieved the level of comfort with him that Edith obviously had. It was intriguing to Mary how Matthew could be so good at putting people at ease around him, how she could pride herself at being in control in every situation, and yet between them things remained stilted and unresolved. They were kind to one another, but Mary couldn't help but think that there was something missing. She was about to turn away, unable to keep watching them, when Sybil came up behind her.

"You've not done much dancing," Sybil said.

"Neither have you," Mary said, smiling. "Not with the one I'd have expected you to stick with all night."

Sybil blushed. "Why would I want to dance with Tom when I can watch him leaping about with granny?"

Both sisters turned to watch them. "Poor granny," Mary said trying to hold back her laughter.

"How do you suppose he lured her out there? Normally, she only likes to waltz."

"The redowa is very like the waltz," Mary answered. "I'm sure he downplayed the ways in which it isn't."

Sybil giggled as they continued to watch. At one point, Tom looked up past Violet and locked eyes with Sybil for a moment, causing him to trip slightly. He caught himself, but Violet pursed her lips at him. "Tom, it won't do if neither dancer knows what they are doing."

"Pardon me, Cousin Violet," he said. "I know I'm supposed to lead, but months of deferring to you has inoculated me against it. I dare say your husband was quite a man to keep up with you."

"He'd have a mouthful to say to you, no doubt."

"Any of it positive?"

"Very little, but I imagine you'd have won him over eventually."

"You think so?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"You've convinced _me_ there's some good in you behind the revolutionary nonsense, and I'm more discriminating than he was."

Tom's expression softened. Violet lifted her eyes to him and her focused gaze made Tom think she was looking through him, past the wit and charm, and into the heart of who he really was.

"I do believe where a person comes from matters, Tom," she said finally, "But not in the way that you think I do."

The music stopped. Tom turned to offer his arm to Violet to walk her back to the chair from whence he'd taken her. Her words had thrown him for a bit of a loop, and he wondered whether in some word or action he'd revealed the part of himself that Isobel had been so anxious for him to keep hidden. He had always assumed that when that truth finally made itself known, Violet would be the first to reject him. As he walked with her on his arm, he realized that despite his familial and patriotic pride, acceptance from her, of all people, had come to mean a great deal to him. He wasn't sure what she'd meant by what she'd said exactly. He could only hope.

Mary and Sybil walked over to where they were as Violet sat down next to Cora.

"I think that's my best for the evening," Violet said, taking a sip of the cordial she'd left on the small table next to her chair.

"You're still putting all of us to shame, granny," Sybil said, holding back a grin.

"I dare say if you came to London this season, none of us would stand a chance," Mary added.

Violet gave Mary a skeptical look. "These modern dances are really far too jumpy."

"You did just fine," Tom said, smiling. He looked over at Sybil and raised his eyebrows in question, wondering just how long she would insist on putting him off.

"What do you think, mama?" Sybil asked, addressing her mother, but looking straight at Tom as if the question itself was her answer to him. He couldn't help but smile as he rolled his eyes at her.

"I think they look rather fun," Cora replied.

"Your American constitution makes you better suited for them, I suppose," Violet added.

Taking that as his cue, Tom put his hand out to Cora, "What do you say, Cousin Cora, shall we show these English ladies how it's done."

Cora smiled and took his hand. "I shouldn't steal you from the younger girls, but just one won't hurt."

Sybil and Mary laughed, watching them go.

* * *

Sybil having gone over to Gwen to chat, Mary meandered around the room, watching everyone enjoy themselves. Eventually, her eyes landed on Carson who was standing on the far edge of the dance floor, as if presiding over the festivities, proud of his staff and his family. Mary smiled and walked over to him.

"I know it's been some time Carson, but I wonder if you might do me the honor," she said, coming up behind him.

Her words startled him, but he didn't miss a beat. "The honor is entirely mine, milady."

He offered his arm and walked her to the center of the floor.

"I've missed these dances with you, you know," she said as they fell into step.

"Nonsense, milady, you've much better partners at your disposal, and much better born."

"I'm afraid I've come to find that birth is but an imperfect measure of a man's character," Mary said. "Action defines character, and true gentlemen, as we call them, do nothing at all while we ladies must stand aside and hope for them to find in our favor."

Carson was taken with Mary's reflective tone and sought to pick up her spirits.

"Milady, I know you were disappointed by the loss of Mr. Patrick and the disarray the estate was left in, but you mustn't give up. If I may say so, you are still very young, and you remain the first daughter of one the grandest houses in England. Only the most worthy man may win you."

Mary smiled, touched by his words, a salve on her wounded pride.

"We're all behind you, milady," he continued. "The staff. We're all on your side."

"Thank you, Carson. You've always been so kind to me. Always. From when I was quite a little girl. Why is that?"

"Even a butler has his favorites, my lady."

"Does he? I'm glad."

They danced in contented silence for a few measures before Mary spoke again.

"Are you glad to be back here, Carson, after the time away? Is the staff?"

"We are, milady. Leaving was a shock and the rescue of the estate by Mr. Crawley a greater one still, but it has been a happy return."

Mary thought for a moment before asking her next question. "What do you think of Mr. Crawley, Carson?"

"I might not have thought so before of the son of a doctor, but he has proven himself an able master and one worthy of his forebears."

Mary smiled, picturing the ever-so-proud butler having to face the "indignity" of reporting to a middle class man.

"He couldn't do it without your help," she said, sincerely believing it to be true.

Carson smiled kindly. Turning, he saw Matthew standing a few feet away and talking with Robert. He led them in that direction, and before Mary realized what he was doing, Carson stepped away and motioned for Matthew to take over.

Matthew, surprised by Carson's approach, looked to Mary. She smiled as if to accept the turn of events, and then walked into his arms and let him lead her away from the two men who had brought her up, who loved her dearly and who still harbored the hope that she would someday be mistress of Downton Abbey.

"So, are you enjoying your new life?" Mary asked Matthew as they danced.

"I am. Business with the estate is going well, as is my work with the partnership." He paused for a moment. "I know all that seems very trivial to you."

"Not necessarily. Sometimes I rather envy you, having somewhere to go every morning."

"I thought that made me very middle class," he said pointedly, though his tone was light.

Mary smiled. "You should learn to forget what I say. I know I do."

"How about you?" He asked. "Is your life proving satisfactory?"

"Women like me don't have a life. We choose clothes and pay calls and work for charity and do the season, but really, we're stuck in a waiting room until we marry."

"I've made you angry," he said, apologetically.

"My life makes me angry, not you," Mary looked up as she spoke and their eyes locked. Matthew held his breath, able for the first time since they'd met to inspect her features up close. There was no denying how beautiful she was.

Unable to hold her unwavering gaze, he looked away and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry that you don't feel happier on a night like this."

"It's as much my fault as anyone else's. I like to put on a stoic front, but I've a bad habit of dwelling on my own misery—selfish as I know it is to call my very comfortable life miserable."

"We are all entitled to our feelings, regardless of our situation."

"I'm at least resolving not to make others miserable with me. So, if I've taken you out of your humor, I apologize. I'd hate to think I'm the only one of your dance partners this evening who didn't make you laugh."

Matthew smiled. "Don't worry on that account. Miss O'Brien barely cracked a smile. I fear she finds me most unsuitable for my current position."

"Well, then that makes two of us."

Matthew's brow furrowed.

"Oh, goodness!" Mary said with a hint of a blush rising to her cheeks. "I mean she finds us both— _me_ unsuitable as well, not that I think you . . . certainly not—I mean, I know you think I did, but . . . well . . . I would never . . . not anymore."

Matthew laughed heartily at her embarrassed ramblings. "See, there, you've done it. You've made me laugh."

Mary rolled her eyes and smiled. "At my own expense."

"Whatever gets the job done."

Mary wasn't sure, but she might have felt his hand tighten on her waist. For the rest of their dance, she still thought things between them were unresolved. But now it was in a good way.

* * *

After many cups of punch and dances with just about every female present except for the only one he was interested in dancing with, Tom left the ball to find the bathroom. On his way back, he saw none other than Sybil coming in his direction. She smiled as he approached.

"I was looking for mama," she said. "I think she escaped to the library."

"I've no sense of when the festivities will end tonight," Tom said playfully, "but I'm not leaving until we've had a dance so you best resolve that we've built enough _anticipation_ for it right now."

Sybil laughed. "Thank you for being patient with me. I suppose it's silly . . . "

"What?" He asked quietly.

"I don't want others remarking on our friendship," she said quietly. "All the talk of Patrick with Mary and Patrick with Edith . . . it wasn't good for either of them. I know granny and mama had plenty to say about Mary and Mr. Napier, all of it for naught. And, well, I'm afraid what I think of you would be quite obvious if so many prying eyes were to see us dancing."

She looked up and found a soft, understanding on his face. "What makes you so sure anyone would notice?" He asked.

"I'm not sure," she said with a shrug. "Like I said it's silly, but I want what's between us to be just—"

"Between us," he finished.

She sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. "Oh, I suppose we should just go on," she said as she took his hand with the intention of leading him back to the ballroom, but when she pulled he didn't budge. Sybil turned back to him, a questioning expression on her face. Smiling, Tom pulled her into a nearby sitting room and into his arms into a dancing position.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sybil nodded. "But I can barely hear the music."

"We'll make our own then. How about a waltz?"

"A waltz?"

Tom nodded and started to hum the melody of Tchaikovzky's Waltz of the Flowers and slowly moving in the appropriate step.

Sybil giggled but followed his lead.

"Hush! I'll lose the tune."

Sybil pulled her lips into her mouth to keep herself from laughing, and he continued humming, sometimes adding a whistle for effect.

Eventually, as they continued moving around the small room, eyes intent on one another, Sybil's desire to laugh went away and was replaced by a desire of another sort entirely.

Neither knew exactly how it happened, but at some point . . .

Tom stopped humming . . .

And they stopped moving . . .

And her right hand moved from his left hand onto his shoulder . . .

And both of his hands were at her waist . . .

And she might have stopped breathing as she watched his eyes look down from her own eyes to her lips . . .

That was the moment at which the grandfather clock in the room very loudly struck midnight.

The chime was so loud they jolted apart. Both of them, a bit breathless from what had almost happened, laughed through each of the twelve times the chime sounded.

When it was quiet again, having slowed his breath, though not his quickly beating heart, Tom approached Sybil again and taking her face into his hands gave her a small, chaste kiss on the forehead.

"Happy New Year, my dearest Sybil," he said in a whisper

Sybil took his left hand from where it held her face and placed an equally small, equally chaste kiss on the back of it. Then, she threaded her fingers with his.

Tom, moved by her gesture, took a deep breath to collect himself and looked down at his feet. "We should go back, lest everyone notice we're gone and we _really_ get them talking."

Sybil snickered and hand-in-hand they walked back to the ballroom together, but taking care to let go before they stepped through the doors.

It didn't matter. The crowd was too happy in celebration of the newly arrived year to notice.

Tom and Sybil walked over to where Matthew, Mary and Edith were standing next to Violet, who remained in her chair.

"Happy New Year, my dears," she said, smiling at they approached, then turning to the full group, she added, "Dare we hope the coming year will not be nearly so eventful as the last?"

The five young people looked at one another smiling in silent agreement about how very unlikely that was.


	21. Chance Meeting

 

**March 1913**

As her son got older and he grew into his father's handsome features, Claire Branson wondered what kind of girl Tom would attract. Although in the past he'd spoken adamantly about eventually wanting to marry a woman who would share his political interests, work ethic and intellectual curiosity, Tom had never been particularly effusive when it came to talking about girls who interested him in general, something his mother had attributed to the English influence in his upbringing. But in the early spring of 1913, Tom's more passionate Irish nature began to emerge, proving Claire's assumptions wrong. If Tom had seemed stoic before, his mother guessed now, it had been because he hadn't met the right girl. Apparently, now, he had.

Tom didn't realize it was happening, of course, which was a source of amusement for his mother. But there was a spark in his eye when he talked to Claire about certain books _someone_ had recommended or about women's politics or about visits to Downton Abbey during which he'd had a particularly interesting conversation with the youngest of the Crawley daughters, the only resident of the big house whose words he ever seemed to remember verbatim. It was a subtle change that only the keen eye of a mother could notice, and while endearing to watch, the prospect also worried Claire a bit.

No English lady that she had ever heard of would be satisfied with a middle class life. And Claire knew that when the time came, the lengths that she and Isobel had gone to in order to protect Tom might well go out the window, because when it came to marrying into the upper classes, all bets were off. Claire never pressed Tom about his feelings, knowing that he always revealed anything that was important to him when he was ready. But she couldn't help her curiosity. And on the second Saturday in March of 1913, the fates conspired in her favor to satisfy her.

Some might call it the luck of the Irish. Claire Branson settled on divine intervention. What else would have compelled her to walk up to the front hall of the house at the precise moment Lady Sybil Crawley knocked on the door?

It had become Isobel's routine to visit the hospital on Saturday mornings, and on this particular day, she'd invited Tom and Matthew to see the progress that had been made in the rebuilding of one of the wings that had been shuttered in the time the Crawleys had been gone from the village. Ivy had gone to take a turn in one of the village parks with the footman from the big house who'd been coming around more and more often the last few months. Claire, having been entrusted with Ivy's well being by her parents when they'd left Manchester, insisted that Moseley serve as their chaperone, a role Moseley accepted with more enthusiasm than Ivy liked.

That was how Claire came to be left alone in the house. She chose to take advantage of the rare solitude by cleaning out and reorganizing her pantry, a task only a lifelong cook and housekeeper could enjoy. Tom liked to tease her that she guarded the cupboard so strictly—regularly chastising Ivy for not putting things back in the exact right place—that it was a bit like her second child. But having grown up in a family in which everyone was expected to work from the time they could walk, she had learned to take pride in a job well done. Pride, after all, was the only thing her parents had been able to afford to give to their children.

Once finished with the pantry, Claire reread the two letters from her aunt and cousins in Ireland that had arrived with yesterday's post. She wrote her responses in short order and then, in search of reading material, headed up to the parlor, where Moseley would leave the crisply ironed newspapers her son didn't finish reading at breakfast, so Tom could take them up again with his afternoon tea.

She'd only just crossed the hall when she heard the light knock. So soft was the sound that if Claire had been anywhere in the house except that very spot she might have missed it.

Divine intervention, indeed.

Surprised that anyone would be calling now, Claire smoothed out her skirt and moved to open the door. The young lady on the other side of it smiled brightly, though her expression made it clear she'd expected someone else.

"Oh, hello," she said softly.

"Good morning, miss," Claire replied in a friendly tone. "I'm afraid Mrs. Crawley is out at the moment. Would you like to leave a note or card? I'll be sure to give it to her when she returns."

"Is Mr. Branson in?" The girl asked tentatively.

Claire hesitated, turning her head slightly. "No, both he and Mr. Crawley have gone with Mrs. Crawley to the hospital."

"I see," she said, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Would you let them know Sybil Crawley came by?"

Claire recognized the name immediately. Given her training as a servant, her demeanor revealed nothing, but her mind was reeling.

_My goodness, Tommy, the girl_ is _beautiful._

"Certainly, I will."

"Thank you." Sybil smiled at Claire once more and turned to go.

Claire was about to shut the door, when she heard Sybil's voice again.

"Pardon me," she said coming back to the door. "I apologize sincerely for the impertinence, but . . . are you . . . Mrs. Branson?"

Claire was unsure as to how to respond. Tom had intimated to her that he'd revealed his parentage to Sybil, but in this moment, Claire wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge. "I am the housekeeper here, milady," was all she could come up with.

"I know!" Sybil exclaimed. Then, checking her excitement at having the chance to meet Tom's mother, she continued more quietly. "That is, Tom's told me about you. He speaks very highly of you. I've always wanted to say hello when I've come for tea with Cousin Isobel but . . ."

"A bit odd to ask the mistress permission to chat with the help?" Claire filled in for her, smiling at Sybil's exuberance.

Sybil nodded, smiling. Unsure of what to do next, she stood at the door and fidgeted with her small bag. "I'll be off then," she said finally, "Thank you for relaying the message. It was very nice to meet you." With her last words, Sybil stepped forward and offered Claire her hand to shake. Claire was a bit taken aback, but shook Sybil's hand, touched by the sincerity she could see in the young woman's eyes.

Sybil turned to go again, but this time it was Claire who stopped her.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil turned. "Yes?"

"I reckon they'll be back by and by, if you'd like to come inside and wait."

Sybil's face brightened and she followed Claire into the house.

Claire took Sybil's coat and hat, placing them on the hooks by the door. Then, she led Sybil to the parlor and gestured for her to sit. "May I get you some tea, milady?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

Claire smiled and headed to the kitchen. She was at the sink filling the kettle when she heard the steps of someone coming into the kitchen.

"Ivy, are you back already?" Claire asked without turning around.

"It's Sybil."

Claire turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion," Sybil said quietly, stepping into the room. "I thought we could chat while you prepared our tea."

_Our._

Claire looked at Sybil for a long moment. The incongruity of such a delicate, well dressed, innocently eager girl in her clean but sparse kitchen made Claire smile in spite of herself.

* * *

 

"It's really coming along quite nicely, mother. You should be proud."

Isobel smiled at Matthew's praise as she, Matthew and Tom walked back to the house.

"It will soon be at full capacity again," she said. "I've come to the point I don't think adding beds will be too ambitious a plan."

"I am surprised at how welcoming Dr. Clarkson was of our help with the accounting," Matthew said.

Isobel laughed. "Your father was a stubborn man who needed to keep his hand in every part of the practice. Mercifully, Dr. Clarkson is not so."

"Finding efficiencies that allow for the purchase of more medicines was a convincing argument," Tom said with a smile, walking up to the door and holding it open for Isobel.

Isobel nodded as she passed him into the house. Walking through the hall, she stopped at the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

"Ivy and Mrs. Branson are in a bright way today, by the sound of it," she said, turning back to Tom and Matthew, who were walking in behind her.

"Happy spirits don't usually overlap with those two," Tom said.

"Alfred coming 'round may have something to do with it on Ivy's part," Matthew said with a smirk.

Tom laughed. "You may be right about that. I'll go tell them we're back."

But when Tom made it into the kitchen, it wasn't Ivy sitting and laughing at the table with his mother.

It was Sybil.

"Speak of the devil," his mother said brightly, as they turned to him.

_Oh, dear._

Sybil stood. "Your mum's been telling me about your youth in Manchester."

"Which bits?" Tom asked, a bit nervously.

"The good ones," Claire responded innocently, also standing and starting to collect the empty tea cups.

"Like when you were eight and got stuck climbing up the tree in the yard and Dr. Crawley had to summon the constable to get you down," Sybil said, grinning.

"Overconfidence is not a trait that's developed recently," Claire said to Sybil, with a wink.

"Was there a, um, reason for your visit, Sybil?" Tom asked, nervously.

"There is, as a matter of fact," she said walking up to him. "Gwen's been given the afternoon off, and I thought if you were not busy, you might come by and talk about her interview."

"Of course. What time?"

"I was thinking three o'clock at our—" Sybil stopped short, remembering they were not alone. She glanced at Claire, then back to Tom. "Why don't we meet you at the gate?"

Tom smiled. "I'll be there."

Sybil smiled back, then turned back to Claire. "Thank you ever so much for the tea, Mrs. Branson, and the conversation. It was a delight."

"You're most welcome, my dear. Don't forget about us, now. Do come back and visit again."

"Certainly."

"Would you like me to walk you out?" Tom asked.

"That's all right. I'll go say hello to Cousin Isobel before I'm off. I know my way."

Once she was gone from the kitchen Tom turned back to his mother, who was smiling with a knowing look on her face. "She's quite a nice girl."

Tom looked down at the floor and scratched his head. "I think I'll go up to my room for a bit. Do some reading before luncheon."

"We're going to have this conversation," Claire said with a laugh. "Or do you think you can avoid me forever?"

Tom turned to go, unable to keep himself from smiling. "I can try."

* * *

 

Tom did manage to escape Crawley House that afternoon without further inquiry from his mother regarding Sybil's visit. He did not, however, escape the teasing of Matthew, who saw him in the hall on his way out of the house and asked what Claire had thought of the young woman.

"Or are you afraid to face her?"

"I'm not afraid of my mother, Matthew," Tom responded.

"Is that why you've been so bravely hidden away in your room since midday?"

"For your information, I happened to be finishing a harrowing read."

Matthew crossed his arms. "And what was that?"

"The Servile State."

Matthew laughed. "Not even you can get _that_ excited about post-Industrial economic theory."

"How would you know? According to Belloc, the ultimate result of capitalism will be a devolution of the work force into de facto slavery."

"Well, you're not going to change the world this afternoon," Matthew said with a smile. "Aren't you spending it with Sybil?"

"As a matter of fact, we're helping a housemaid make a new life for herself outside the bounds of service."

"And that's going to change the world?" Matthew asked wryly.

"You don't know, Gwen," Tom said opening the door to leave. "It might."

Tom could hear Matthew laugh as he stepped out the door, and he smiled.

Since they'd met there at Christmas, Tom and Sybil had been returning to the place by the creek just inside the Downton Abbey gates on the occasional afternoon. Most of the time, they would discuss books or the news of the day. Twice, Sybil had brought poetry for them to read. From time to time, each of them still thought back to the moment they had shared dancing alone at the servants' ball and what had _almost_ happened, but they never discussed it, somehow silently agreeing to retreat back into the comfort of their ever deepening friendship and leaving physical attraction and the complications that came with it aside for the time being.

Tom sometimes wondered whether Matthew ever suspected how much time they spent together outside the notice of their families, but if Matthew actually did know, he never let on. This morning, in the kitchen in front of his mother, Sybil had almost given the game away. Still, Tom couldn't help but be endeared when she called it "our spot," which she'd clearly just been about to do again. Gwen would be the first third party to be invited there. As Tom approached the gates, though, he only saw Sybil, who waved as he approached.

"Does Gwen have to work after all?" He asked, lifting his hat in greeting.

"She was delayed a bit, helping Anna make up a room for Aunt Rosamund. She's apparently decided to arrive early for Mary's birthday next week. Anyway, Gwen will be here soon. She knows where to go, so we can start walking there, if you like."

They fell into step together toward the creek, and Sybil held out a book she'd been holding behind her.

"I brought this for you."

"Excellent timing," he said with a smile. "I just finished one earlier today."

"Anything I would like?"

"Depends on your interest in theoretical economics."

Sybil scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Maybe if I'm having trouble sleeping."

Tom laughed.

"I understand that the two are intertwined," Sybil said, "but I must say politics is far more interesting and feels much more immediately relevant to our lives than economics."

"And what's this?" Tom asked, holding up the book she'd just handed him.

"A collection of stories by Joseph Conrad," Sybil responded. "It came in a box that papa ordered from London. I've not read it, but I know how much you liked Heart of Darkness, so . . ."

"Thank you," he said. "I have something for you as well."

"Oh?"

Tom pulled out a thick volume from the inside of his jacket. "It's called A Thousand and One Nights. I bought it from a colleague who read it after visiting the orient last year. It's mostly just a collection of tales and fables from the Arabian traditions, but the framework is rather interesting."

Sybil took the book from him. "How is that?"

"This Persian sultan's wife is unfaithful to him, and when he finds out, he has her killed. Then, he vows to marry a new woman at the start of each day and have her executed at the end of it to prevent from being cuckolded ever again."

"How gruesome!"

"Eventually, he marries a woman who uses her intellect to outsmart him and manages to keep herself alive the number of days on the title, at the end of which he lets her live."

"How?"

"You'll have to read and find out won't you," he said with a wink.

Sybil smiled and flipped through the book, stopping at an annotated illustration. "Scheherazade?"

"That's her name."

"She looks like she's wearing clothes by Paul Poiret."

"Who?"

"He's a French fashion designer whose work has Asian influences. He appears in London magazines all the time. His clothes are very beautiful, though I doubt we're likely to see anything like them here in the country."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know anyone brave enough to break convention in quite that way."

"Are you sure about that?"

She smiled. "It pains me to say it, but despite my almost 18 years of age, my mother still doesn't trust me to go to the dressmaker alone." Sybil laughed. "I can't say I blame her."

"What do you think she's afraid of?"

"Me choosing for myself, I suppose. I would try for something too _unconventional_."

"And we can't have that at Downton Abbey."

They both laughed. As they approached the rock by the creek where Sybil usually sat, she looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "Speaking of mothers. . ."

Tom looked down to his feet and smiled. "We didn't talk much after you left, but I do think she enjoyed meeting you."

"I liked her very much," Sybil said. After a moment, she added more quietly, "I hope you didn't think it an intrusion. I just went over to tell you about Gwen and when she answered the door, well, I should have just left, but couldn't help myself."

Tom smiled. "I'm sorry it wasn't me who introduced you properly, although you now have ample evidence as to why I might have wanted to delay, given the exuberance with which she enjoys discussing the caprices of my childhood."

Sybil tilted her head slightly. "You're lucky to have her close. My parents have known families who have taken in children to improve their circumstances, but this is usually done with the condition that they cut ties with their past. Dr. Crawley was doubly generous in affording you an education and a life close to your mother. I can see her influence in you and you're a better man for it."

A slight blush came over Tom cheeks, not out of embarrassment, but pride. The frankness of Sybil's words affected him deeply. They revealed just how well she'd gotten to know him. She recognized and was attracted not just to the polish of education and gentlemanly manners that the Crawleys had provided, but also to the rougher, more ardent-hearted character that his mother had kept alive in him.

They looked at one another for a moment before both turning upon hearing footsteps.

"Begging your pardon," Gwen said tentatively, fearing she'd arrived during a private moment. "I don't mean to interrupt."

Sybil smiled warmly. "Don't be silly, Gwen." She stepped forward to take Gwen's arm and brought her to the rock, motioning Gwen to sit down. "We have it all planned out. Tom is going to make as if he's interviewing you for a job, and he'll be giving you advice on how to answer as you go. I'll be just over there."

Sybil pointed to a spot on the grass a short distance away where Tom had laid down his suit jacket as Sybil had been talking. He walked backed toward them and as he did so, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Gwen was too sensible a girl to get caught up in thoughts of men's looks, as Daisy was sometimes prone to do, but in that moment, watching him approach her with an easy smile, Gwen couldn't help but think to herself how handsome a man Mr. Branson was and how lucky Sybil was to have his attention.

Having left Tom and Gwen to their task, Sybil sat down where Tom had laid his coat with the intent of starting the book he had brought for her. After opening it to the first page, however, she couldn't stop herself from looking over and watching them interact.

Remembering her talk with Mrs. Branson earlier that day, it occurred to Sybil that both Tom and Gwen were children of people in service and that given their mental acuity and aspirations, they actually had more in common with one another than Sybil had with either of them. Sybil's aristocratic birth and upbringing, her lack of a formal education and her never having worked a day in her life—all of it embarrassed her deeply in the face of two people who had done so much for themselves and had _worked_ to find their happiness. Sybil couldn't understand how it was that her father, her grandmother even Mary could feel any sort of pride in a lifestyle they had not earned, where she only felt a longing to do more.

Sybil looked away and realized she was crying when the first tear fell on the open book on her lap. Of course, she immediately felt foolish for wanting more when life had already given her so much. But how could it be helped? None of the things her life afforded were things she wanted. What she treasured most—her friendships with Tom and Gwen—had come to her quite by accident. Sybil wondered now, in fact, if a marginally different stroke of fate might have resulted in Tom falling in love with Gwen and never giving Sybil a moment's notice. At this thought, she took a deep breath and looked down at the book again, determined to put any thoughts of Tom with anyone else but her out of her mind.

She cleaned off the tear that had fallen on the book and flipped through to the illustration that she had happened upon earlier. She ran her fingers over the image of Scheherazade, who was wearing a revealing top quite like a brazier and a skirt that looked suspiciously like trousers. Sybil closed her eyes and tried to remember the magazine photograph of the fashion model dressed by Poiret that this illustration called to her mind.

She opened her eyes and smiled to herself. Her mother had promised her a trip to the dressmaker next month.

_All revolutions start somewhere._

* * *

 

Sitting on the rock, knowing there was nothing in particular at stake, Gwen still felt nervous as Tom paced back and forth in front of her.

"What's your name?" He asked in a serious tone.

"Gwen Dawson."

"And your age?"

"Twenty."

Tom stopped his pacing. "Answer in a full sentence. You'll sound more properly professional."

"I'm twenty-years-old, sir."

"Good. Now, what's your experience as a secretary?"

"I haven't got any."

Tom chuckled. "You can't very well say that."

"Well, it's the truth, ain't it?" Gwen sighed. "Oh, it's no use. How do I think this is possible? They haven't even written back with a date. It's likely they've forgotten all about me."

Tom walked over and kneeled in front of her. "Gwen, you don't know that. And if even if they don't write, there will be other jobs and other interviews, for which you will need to be prepared."

"But I don't have experience as a secretary! Am I supposed to lie?"

Tom looked down and smiled. "If jobs were only given to people with experience, nobody would get hired for the first time. There are thousands of secretaries working around England, and all of them had to begin somewhere."

"How did they do it?"

"How long have you been in service?"

"Since I was fifteen."

"OK, when someone asks you as to your experience, you say, 'I've been working for five years, and I've completed a secretarial course with top marks. I have good typing speeds, and I'm proficient in short-hand."

"But if I say that I haven't really answered the question."

"The question is beside the point. An interviewer just wants to know if you can do the job, and you have to convince them that you can. Tell them you can with every answer regardless of what they actually ask."

Gwen smiled and let out a long sigh. "I just wish I could believe it's possible."

Tom smiled. "Gwen, you do believe it. Everything about your life—your parents, your upbringing, your job as a maid, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes—all of it is built to convince you that you deserve only as much as you have and nothing more. Society beats the spirit of working class people down so they learn from early on that doing the bidding of those who are supposedly above them is all they are meant to do and so they fail in any attempts to rise above those circumstances. The fact that you've come this far, that this aspiration has not been beaten out of you is proof you believe it."

Gwen shrugged. "I might have already given up if it weren't for Lady Sybil."

"Well, we all need our champions, and you could not do better than her."

Gwen smiled at the catch in his voice when he said _her_. She looked at him for a moment with narrowed eyes. "Why do you have such confidence in me that I can do this? You barely know me."

"Because she knows you and because I know it can be done. How we live, not how we are born determines our fate—if that weren't true mankind would have died out long ago."

"I wish I knew someone who'd taken the leap, as it were."

"You know me."

Gwen looked at him curiously.

"My journey started at an earlier age and with more help than you've been given, but that doesn't mean you aren't capable of completing it just the same. By helping you I am repaying the generosity of my benefactor forward, and someday you'll give some other person this same help. And that person will do the same to someone else and so on and so forth. That's how we'll change the world."

Gwen smiled. "Thank you."

"Shall we start again?" He asked, standing.

Gwen took a deep breath, then nodded.

"What's your name?"

* * *

 

It was close to two hours later when Tom, Sybil and Gwen emerged from the wood and said their goodbyes before Tom set off back to Crawley House. He, Matthew and Isobel would be returning that evening for dinner.

Gwen still wasn't sure a job would ever materialize, but she at least felt more upbeat with regard to her ability to take an interview—if one ever came her way. The progress in her attitude pleased Sybil.

"Oh, Gwen, I'll miss you so when you are gone from us."

"You speak as if you know it'll happen."

"I do!"

Gwen smiled indulgently. "I wish I shared your confidence."

"Whereas I wish I had such an exciting challenge to look forward to."

The young women giggled at their own pining and linked arms to walk back to the house together. Their worlds growing larger before them through the power of friendship.


	22. A Old Friend, A New Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter are companion pieces, and are heavy on Sybil. This one goes into her friendships and the next will be her growing interest in rebellion and politics and will finish out season one episode four scenes, including the pamphlets Tom gives her and the pants.
> 
> One important note. Although I mention that Matthew is now in charge of the running of the house, the family is still seeing to its own personal expenses (clothes, travel, the season, etc.) with what's left of Cora's money, so they are able to buy themselves what they want/need. What I mean by the "running of the house" is salary of the staff, food (including for parties and guests), and anything regarding general upkeep. That is being paid for by the proceeds from the rental of Downton Place and Matthew's fortune from Lavinia. Eventually, the proceeds from the yield from estate farms will cover it. I point this out because I want to make clear that while Robert has sort of washed his hands of things, Matthew isn't the one approving what the Crawleys buy for themselves. He is smart enough to have given them a wide berth on this in order to avoid conflict. All he wants is for the running of the house and estate to be efficient. The Crawleys can spend however they like what is essentially still their money (Cora's money won't be Matthew's until he's earl).

 

**May 1913**

As the early warmth of March gave way to the rains of April and the first sunny days of May, Downton Abbey came into full bloom, a sight its inhabitants welcomed dearly having missed it the year before. It had been a sleepy spring in the house. Robert had more or less settled into a sort of retirement. It was not so different from his previous life, save for the fact that he was no longer drowning in concerns over whether or not the estate would make it through another year.

After negotiations with those who chose retirement, about sixty percent of the land remained in tenancy. The families who stayed, reinvigorated by the energy and hard work of the young men now at the helm, were eager to start planting this year's crops and see their stock start to fatten up again on the land's greening grasses. Although the idea that their work would be compensated by more than a mere subsistence had been met with some skepticism at first, spring brought many of the village lads out of the woodwork, and William had little trouble staffing the estate farms that eventually would provide for the upkeep of the house and grounds.

On a recent tour of the farms with Matthew and Tom, many of them had gone out of their way to thank Robert for his generosity, saying they counted themselves lucky to have a landlord who was affording them a path toward true financial independence. Matthew and Tom encouraged Robert to accept the compliments, though the vision for modernization and a more equitable distribution of the spoils had not been his. They did so to assuage the effort it had taken Robert to swallow his pride and accept their plan in the first place. Initially, Robert questioned whether the very tenants who had been so despondent before, when the family left Downton, could be so much more willing to work now.

"Having never had to work at all," Tom had answered, "you find it difficult to empathize with the desire to do so for your own cause rather than someone else's, and how true ownership, in turn, makes the work more rewarding."

Robert remained unsurprisingly obstinate in his view that Tom's socialism was naïve at best and dangerous at worst. And yet Tom was, by and large, the one who could bring Robert around to his and Matthew's way of thinking when that needed doing. The irony of this was not lost on Robert. And the truth was that while he enjoyed fighting his corner when it came to casual political talk after dinner, Robert could admit to himself now that he had never been fit for the task of running Downton. Neither his education nor upbringing had prepared him for it. The loss of the estate, though temporary, had opened his eyes to this truth. The ease with which the young men set about correcting his folly only confirmed it. However bluntly that truth had come, Robert accepted it with a measure of calm. Something his wife appreciated.

For Cora, calm had been a much welcome change after the upheaval the family had faced for the last two years. The quiet of the first few months of the year had allowed her to think about how to ease the family back into the busy social schedule they had been used to keeping. The season was coming upon them quickly, but Cora also wanted to begin hosting parties again as well as inviting more friends to stay—something that hadn't happened since the death of Kemal Pamuk. She consulted Matthew about the topic, and he acquiesced more easily than she had expected. He understood, of course, that what was his was his because it couldn't be Mary's, and he did not want to stand in the way of successful marriages for any of the girls. So while he cautioned Cora against indiscriminate spending, he acknowledged that for this particular cause the purse strings could be loosened.

Downton Abbey was as powerful a tool as any in Cora's efforts to get her daughters settled. If Mary was going to be thrown to the wolves with no fortune to take with her, Cora believed she had no choice but to wield it. There was an unmistakable aura to the house that reminded any visitor of the family's lineage and influence through the ages. Cora herself had bought her way in. _Surely_ , she thought, _others would seek out the association._ And in April, Cora received a letter that presented an opportunity to re-establish Downton as a place to be, especially among those in society who might have written off the family when they had been forced to leave.

The letter was from Lady Priscilla Wilkes, wife of Sir John Wilkes and mother to Miss Imogen Wilkes. They were former neighbors who had resided in nearby Hartfield Park until three years ago, when his shipping business took Sir John and his family to New York. Imogen was the same age as Sybil. In their early childhood, the two girls had been close friends, and in a year, they would be debuting together. Lady Priscilla detailed in her letter that the family was returning to England now to have the year to prepare for Imogen's season, because despite their time in America, the Wilkes were English through and through and could not imagine bringing their daughter out anywhere but London. After landing in Liverpool, Lady Priscilla wanted to bring the family back to Yorkshire for a visit before heading to their house in London. Cora proffered the invitation knowing that there were few women in society she could invite to Downton who would make every detail of the visit known in the right circles more reliably than Lady Priscilla.

The Wilkes docked in Liverpool the first week of May, and Lady Priscilla quickly sent a letter off to Downton ahead of their arrival.

The first week of May also happened to be the week of the village fair, and the day the letter was making its way to the house, Cora, Sybil and Edith took a late afternoon walk through the village green, where the fair was being set up.

Sybil and Edith both had been in bright spirits recently, which pleased Cora. Edith, in particular, seemed finally to be coming out of her shell and willing to step out of Mary's shadow. She had even expressed excitement about the upcoming season. Unfortunately for Cora, the excitement had brought with it a not insignificant amount of complaining regarding her wardrobe. This was an area where Cora often came into disagreement with her daughters, who were constantly surprised as to how a New Yorker could have such conservative taste.

On their walk, a recent edition of Vogue—which Cora's mother, Martha, sent to the girls regularly along with her letters—was the topic of conversation.

"I really wish mother would stop sending that magazine," Cora said, addressing Edith. "It's not as if you and Mary don't complain enough about what we've bought you to wear."

"Did you and grandmamma quarrel about such things?" Sybil asked her mother.

"Constantly," Cora answered with a sigh.

"Well, perhaps she sends it as a form of retribution," Sybil said, making Cora smile.

"Grandmamma always dresses in the latest fashions," Edith said. "I don't see why we can't."

"Honestly, Edith," Cora said, "you only wore about half the dresses you brought to London last year."

" _Sybil_ is getting to go to the dressmaker this week," Edith said.

"She is," Cora said.

"Why is Sybil having a new dress and not me?"

"Because it's Sybil's turn," Cora replied, plainly.

"Can it be my choice this time?" Sybil asked carefully. Her plans for her new frock had been churning in her mind since March, when Tom had given her the book about Scheherazade.

"Of course, darling, as long as you choose what I choose."

Sybil bit her tongue, knowing that insisting at this early stage would only ensure that her mother _would_ accompany her to Madam Swann's and order the dress herself.

Having circled the green, the three came back upon Pratt, who had been waiting for them at the village's main crossing. Seeing them approach, he walked to the side of the car and opened the door.

"Pratt, you'll be taking Lady Sybil to Ripon tomorrow. She'll be leaving after luncheon," Cora said as she stepped in.

"Certainly, your ladyship," Pratt answered.

Once in, he went back around to the front of the car to start it for the journey home.

"Poor old Madame Swann," Sybil said, sitting beside her mother. "I don't know why we bother with fittings. She always makes the same frock."

"What do you want her to make?" Edith asked.

"Something new and exciting," Sybil answered, her eyes open wide with possibility.

"Heavens, look at the time," Cora said with a sigh. "Not a minute to change. And Granny's invited herself for dinner."

"Then she can jolly well wait," Sybil said, nodding her head with finality. Edith snickered in response.

"So, women's rights begin at home, I see," Cora said. "Well, I'm all for that."

* * *

 

The letter from Lady Priscilla was waiting for Cora when she, Edith and Sybil arrived back at the house. The Wilkes would be arriving in Downton the following day and would be staying for two nights. So after changing and then dispatching O'Brien to alert Carson, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes so they could begin making preparations, Cora walked over to Sybil's room. She knocked lightly and without waiting for a response, let herself in.

Sybil was still only half-dressed. She and Gwen had been sitting on the edge of Sybil's bed talking, and both stood quickly upon hearing Cora enter.

Cora sighed in exasperation at the sight of her daughter.

"Gwen, please get on with it," Cora said.

Sybil turned with a roll of her eyes, so Gwen, who was blushing at having been "caught" not doing her work, could button the back of her dress. "Please don't chastise Gwen, mama, I asked her to sit down. We were talking about what I shall have Madame Swann design for me tomorrow."

"And what concern is that of Gwen's?" Cora asked.

"She helps me dress, doesn't she? I should say what kind of buttons or lacings Madame Swann may choose are of Gwen's utmost concern."

"I thought you didn't like help when you dressed," Cora said pointedly.

"I don't," Sybil responded, a cheeky smile forming on her lips. "Imagine your horror if you'd walked in here and I was doing just that."

"Horror, indeed," Cora said, unable to keep herself from breaking into a smile. _Sybil can be such a trial sometimes._

"So what did you need, mama? Or were you merely looking to approve of what I'd chosen to wear?"

"I came to tell you that the Wilkes family will be arriving tomorrow, so your visit to the dressmaker will have to wait until Wednesday. I thought maybe you could take Imogen to the fair in the afternoon."

Sybil snickered. "You don't remember her very well if you think such an outing will satisfy her discriminating sensibilities."

"Then think of something else, but remember that she'll be tired from travel."

"I'm sure she'll remind me."

"Well, anyway, it will give you a chance to get reacquainted. Perhaps you can ask _her_ for her thoughts on your new frock."

"I shall," Sybil said. "Now do leave us, mama, your hovering does not help Gwen's fingers move any faster."

Cora narrowed her eyes, thinking that she should stay and wait if she wanted her daughter down in a timely manner, but chose instead to cut her losses and take her leave. "All right, but don't be too long."

"I won't."

"Make sure she doesn't dally, Gwen."

"Certainly, milady," Gwen said quietly and curtseyed as she spoke.

"And don't worry," Cora said, "I know you are not the cause of Lady Sybil's being late for dinner."

As soon as Cora closed the door, Gwen let out a big sigh of relief. "Oh, milady, imagine if she had heard the _actual_ topic of conversation!"

"She knows I'm helping you find a job," Sybil said turning back to face her. "But I daresay hearing us talk of _that_ would have annoyed her more. That's why I made up the ruse about the frock. I do apologize. I love our chats, but I should remember that you might get you into trouble. Oh, Gwen it will be so much easier when you are a secretary and we can behave as proper friends."

"If only I could be so certain as you that day will come. The longer I wait for a reply from Thirsk about the interview, the more remote the possibility feels."

Sybil took Gwen's hands in her own. "We shall know soon. I can feel it."

Gwen smiled. "I'll go get your shoes, milady."

As Gwen was doing that, Sybil went over to her vanity and chose her earrings and necklace.

"Are you looking forward to seeing Miss Wilkes?" Gwen asked, walking back over from the wardrobe.

"She was always quite chatty and fancied herself the center of the universe," Sybil said with a giggle, slipping on her shoes as Gwen held them open. "But she was never spiteful. We enjoyed ourselves together very much. She was probably my closest friend, though it's been so long since I wonder whether we'd be friends if we met now."

"Well, you'll know the answer to that tomorrow, won't you?" Gwen said as she stood.

Sybil smiled warmly. "She was never so good a friend as you."

Gwen blushed. She looked down at her feet. The contrast of her dirty boots with Sybil's delicate satin slippers causing her to laugh quietly at the very absurdity of the idea that two young women of such different backgrounds could be so close. "Do you really think you'll want to stay friends? If I were to go, that is?"

"Of course, I do! And we will! " Sybil exclaimed. "Gwen, if either one of us is to fear our drifting apart it should be me."

"You?"

"The world will be opening up to you, and you will no longer be forced to indulge the silly ramblings of the daughter of your employers. I constantly wonder whether you talk with me only because you feel obligated."

Gwen smiled fully. "I don't, and, of course I will want to remain friends. How will I be expected to survive the world out there without you always telling me I can?"

"I'm glad I can offer at least that."

Gwen laughed. "There's much more, but I can't talk of it all now when her ladyship is waiting for you to go down."

Sybil rolled her eyes and made her way to the door, with Gwen following. "Oh, yes, we can't ever keep people with nothing to do waiting."

Sybil watched as Gwen headed toward the staircase to the servants hall, turning to go her own way only when Gwen was gone from her sight. It had been in the last three years, all the time that Imogen had been gone, that Sybil had found a friend in the young housemaid. As she walked toward the drawing room, Sybil considered how much she had grown in that period. Beyond the passage of time, her family's trials had also had an effect on the person she had become. Indeed, there was no telling what it would be like to see a friend from an era of her life that now seemed rather distant and foreign.

Regardless of how she and Imogen would find one another, however, Sybil couldn't deny that what she had said to Gwen about how strong _their_ friendship was was true. Whether it was by virtue of the fact that it had flourished during particularly formative years for them both or the fact that they'd weathered the family's recent ups and downs together, Sybil and Gwen had established a bond that both already knew would last for many years.

* * *

The following day, the Wilkes family arrived in the late morning and was welcomed by the family and staff, who had lined up outside to receive them. As Sir John and Lady Priscilla shared warm greetings with Robert and Cora, Imogen ran over to Sybil to embrace her old friend with such enthusiasm, Edith and Mary exchanged a bewildered glance.

"Oh, my darling Sybil, How lovely you look!" Imogen exclaimed. "You two as well," she said, addressing Edith and Mary, though barely turning to look at them.

To Sybil, Imogen looked much changed, the bouncy blonde locks Sybil remembered were tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck and covered by a flowery hat Sybil could only imagine was the very latest in New York style. Her formerly slim frame had filled out a bit but her height—she was tall like Mary—succeeded in hiding any pudginess. Her personality remained as effervescent as ever. Her accent was tempered now by an American influence, making her sound a bit like Cora, neither fully American nor fully English, but somewhere in the middle.

"Aren't you just so thrilled for our debut," she continued, taking Sybil's arm as the two families walked into the house. "How will we wait an entire year? Mama and papa really are too cruel to want me to be here so long before when Newport is such a delight in summer. You simply _must_ come over sometime. You would absolutely love it. We could have had the summer there and returned to London in the fall. It would have been perfect, but, alas, mama insisted on having a season here before we came to mine—Oh my, I should say _ours_ shouldn't I?—Oh, isn't Downton Abbey just as beautiful as I remember. I begged papa to have the chauffeur drive by Hartfield, but he was determined to arrive before luncheon. I suppose it's just as well as I am quite famished. He insisted on us leaving so early I barely had time to finish my breakfast. I daresay the sun was not even risen when we departed. But really who likes to stay in such a place as Liverpool for long? The smell of the ocean is only pleasant out in the open sea, don't you think? I do hope Mrs. Patmore remembers how much I like kidney pie."

"Imogen, dear, pace yourself," her father said as Alfred and Thomas took their coats and hats. "We've barely made it into the house."

"Papa, you cannot expect me to contain my excitement!"

Rolling her eyes and turning to Cora, Lady Priscilla added, "Thank you again, Cora, for having us. It's so lovely to be back among old friends."

"Not at all, my dear Priscilla."

"Unfortunately, we can only stay one night," Sir John added. "But I'm sure we'll be seeing much of you come June."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Cora said. "What calls you back to London so soon?"

"The house is a frightful mess, I'm afraid," Lady Priscilla answered. "My cousin was just there, and we received her letter this morning. I am rather anxious to get it set up before the season and would prefer to be there in person to see to the details myself. You know how particular I am about such things. Mrs. Emma Willshire has offered us her house to stay this week."

"Well, I'm glad you are here for tonight at least. Carson will show you to your rooms. We'll have luncheon served in about an hour so you will have plenty of time to freshen up. The girls and I will be in the parlor in the meantime whenever you are ready to join us." Looking around at their four suitcases, Cora asked, "Is this all your luggage?"

"Heavens, no!" Lady Priscilla said. "We've sent most of it to the London house ahead of us. This is just for the days we'll be in Yorkshire."

"Cora, you did ask Matthew and Tom to luncheon?" Robert asked.

"I did," she replied.

Turning to Sir John, Robert said, "Matthew became my heir when James and Patrick perished on the Titanic. Tom is his adopted brother. They've turned the fortunes of the estate around quite marvelously. As a businessman, you shall enjoy meeting them."

"They have not been part of the family long but they are already very dear to us," Cora added. "They truly are wonderful young men."

At this, Imogen's eyes widened and she leaned into Sybil, squeezing her arm. "Wonderful to look at, I hope," she whispered excitedly. "Sybil, can you just imagine? In a year all of society's finest gentlemen will be there to fete _us_! I can scarcely contain myself. Do you fancy yourself ready for marriage. I fear that my husband will have to put up with quite a lot from me. Are your cousins very nice? Do you suppose they will make good husbands?"

Sybil laughed a bit unsure as to how to respond. "Matthew and Tom are . . . perfectly lovely people."

"You were always so graciously understated about everything, and me quite the opposite. What shall we do this afternoon? I saw that the fair was in town, perhaps we should go there."

"I wouldn't have guessed that would be your preference," Sybil said amused.

"I always did find Downton village a terrible bore, but it's been so long I suppose novelty is its own thrill. Do you think we can convince your papa to ask your chauffer to take us to Hartfield Park? I do so want to see it."

"Imogen, please, let us go upstairs to change," Lady Priscilla said, motioning to her daughter. "After luncheon, you and Sybil can plan whatever you like."

The Wilkes followed Carson up the stairs with Thomas and Sir John's valet following with the luggage.

As they did so, Robert, turning to go, said to Alfred, "Please let Sir John know I'm in the library once he's down again."

"Yes, sir," Alfred replied.

The girls followed their mother to the parlor.

"Imogen is as tiresome as I remember," Mary said with a roll of her eyes.

"I never understood how you put up with her," Edith said.

"She's not all bad," Sybil said with a smile. "Once you get used to her chatter, she's quite nice."

Mary sighed as they entered the parlor. "Sybil, I think that if the devil himself came to stay at Downton, you would find something redeeming in him," she said, sending her sisters into giggles and Cora into a proud smile.

* * *

 

Luncheon was a pleasant enough affair with the families slowly reacquainting themselves, and the Wilkes sharing their favorite stories of life in New York. Matthew joined the family and was greeted warmly by their friends, but he arrived alone with the news that Tom would be unable to join them until dinner.

As she talked with Imogen in the parlor and then throughout luncheon, Sybil began to remember the dynamic of their friendship. In the nursery, Imogen would always play the princess, relegating Sybil to a lady-in-waiting, a role Sybil didn't much mind. Indulging Imogen made convincing her to leave the nursery and explore the house and gardens later on much easier. And once outside the confines of their safe haven, in the darkened hallways of Downton or Harfield Park, or in the nearby woods, Sybil would turn into a dragon or an evil sorceress, and Imogen would easily and happily slip into the role of princess again. Imogen relished that role so dramatically, in fact, that she once gave Sybil a wooden sword so Sybil could also play her knight in shining armor. It was amusing to Sybil to look back and realize that those memories held hints of the woman she would become—one who preferred to be her own savior, rather than the damsel in distress.

After luncheon and after much pleading from Imogen, Robert allowed Pratt to take the girls for a drive around the county, including past the Wilkes's former home at Hartfield Park. Imogen, as per usual, dominated the conversation, but Sybil was happy to hear her vividly detailed stories about life in New York. Her friend spoke of beautiful new theaters and skyscrapers and baseball—Sir John's newly discovered favorite sport "details of which I am sure he is pestering your papa with right now!"—and, to Sybil's utter delight, the suffragette parade that had marched right in front of the Wilkes's Park Avenue apartment the year before.

"How wonderful!" Sybil exclaimed. "Oh, Imogen, I hope you support the cause as much as I do. Surely, you think that it's dreadful that women don't have the vote."

"Well, you can imagine how papa feels about all of that," Imogen said with a roll of her eyes. "As a woman I'm not entirely unsympathetic to the cause. They do make some excellent points, but watching them revealed to me that their style of clothing is most dreadful."

Sybil couldn't help but smile. "I think they have more important things on their mind than fashion."

"That may be true, darling, but I believe firmly they would be much more persuasive if they dressed in the latest styles, don't you think? Who wants to listen to any man or woman speak at length when he or she is wearing terribly drab clothing. I daresay even the most successful _male_ politicians understand the important of their appearance. Perhaps that is what _I_ will bring to the cause! Let others concern themselves with the political ramifications. I shall teach every suffragette in England that if she wants her opinions to be heard the best way to get people's attention is by dressing herself for success."

The girls' laughter at Imogen's idea was such that even Pratt cracked a smile in the front seat. Sybil was so pleased that despite her superficially flighty nature, Imogen considered herself a modern woman ("In thinking _and_ style, dearest, for both are important!") and was not closed off to new ideas like the vote. Once they had calmed themselves, Sybil mentioned her upcoming trip to the dressmaker and what she planned to ask for. Imogen was not so interested and by extension not so well versed in literature and politics as Sybil, but she was nothing if not a forward thinker when it came to fashion. And she obviously understood the power of clothing when one wanted to make a statement.

"Oh, it will be scandalous, to be sure, my dear Sybil, but _divinely_ so."

It was all the encouragement Sybil needed.

Eventually, after their tour of Hartfield Park ("Isn't it just perfect, Sybil? I shall be mistress here someday—even if I have to buy it myself!"), Pratt took the girls back around to Downton village and the fair. They had been walking around arm-in-arm for about half an hour when Sybil spotted Tom. He was walking his bicycle through the fair, obviously on his way home from the train station and work. She wondered momentarily whether to call out to him or simply let him go on his way, knowing that they would see him at dinner, and feeling a bit unsure as to what he'd make of Imogen and what she, in turn, would make of him. Before she made up her mind, however, he turned in their direction.

Imogen, seeing who had caught Sybil's eye, immediately stopped her and squeezed her arm. "Oh, my! Sybil, who is _that_ coming toward us?" She said in an excited whisper, leaning into Sybil slightly.

"That's Tom . . . um, Mr. Tom Branson. Papa mentioned him when you first arrived. He was meant to join us at luncheon but was unable to come."

"What an absolute pity to have missed conversing with _him_! Mr. Crawley was nice enough, but I did find him a bit of a bore. I mean I'm sure he's perfectly nice and will make some perfectly nice woman a perfectly nice husband, but anyone who gets along with my mama so well is not the man for me. But _him_! Oh, Sybil, what a feast onto the eye! How jealous I am that you get to be his friend. Does he have many faults? I do declare I'd be willing to forgive a person with so obviously pleasing a look any fault whatsoever. Here he comes! Oh, do introduce us properly! And be sure to mention I'll be debuting next year. Do you think he'll come to my ball? Surely, he'll be present at yours. You must allow me one dance with him. Does he dance very well? Surely you can tell me."

Imogen smiled widely as Tom approached and was too intent on making a good first impression to notice how Sybil's brow had furrowed at all her gushing.

"Good afternoon," he said, lifting his hat in greeting.

"Hello, Tom," Sybil said. "This is an old friend, Miss—"

Before Sybil had a chance to continue, Imogen stepped forward and held her hand out. "Miss Imogen Wilkes, daughter of Sir John Wilkes and Lady Priscilla Wilkes, who is herself the daughter of the Duke of Bedford. I've just returned from New York, where my family and I have lived these past few years. I'm so very pleased to meet you. Any friends of Sybil are friends of mine. Were you walking about the fair as we were? I'm so sorry you weren't able to join us for luncheon. I do hope you'll make it to dinner. We'll only be staying at Downton one night and I wouldn't dream of not conversing with you more—and Sybil, of course. Has she told you about me? We were the best of friends as young girls. I do believe the friends one makes in childhood are never forgotten. It was terrible to have to leave, but I do so love New York? Have you ever been?"

Tom had glanced back to Sybil several times during Imogen's long monologue, making Sybil smile wider each time as his bemused expression grew even more so as her friend continued to speak.

"Well, have you?" Imogen asked again.

Tom, realizing now that she had stopped talking and did, in fact, want an answer to this particular question, offered one, "I'm afraid I haven't. Sadly, my travels have been confined between England and Ireland."

"Are you Irish?! Oh, well then you absolutely must come to the States!" Imogen exclaimed, grabbing Tom's free arm and continuing to walk in the direction he had been going, with Sybil falling into step just behind them with a sigh. Hearing her, over Imogen's chatting, Tom turned to look at Sybil and gave her a wink and a smile that made her feel warm inside in spite of Imogen having commandeered his attention.

"None love the Irish so well as the Americans," Imogen went on, "It is a verifiable truth. St. Patrick's Day is practically a holiday in New York. The parade brings everything to a standstill. Papa would never let me attend, of course, but one does hear things. Our cook in New York is Irish. I do wish she'd come with us back to England, but she couldn't on account of her family. I can't imagine our new cook will be nicer than her. Certainly, she won't know how to make my favorite dishes. I shall be skin and bones by the time we go back! Mama will like that, of course, she has always made complaints about my figure, but papa is rather nicer about it. He likes a good strong girl like me. Oh, there's Pratt! I have enjoyed your company Mr. Branson, and I do hope we'll see you at dinner, but I am so anxious to get back to the house. Papa is quite particular, and so am I, about when we take tea, and all this walking has made my feet quite uncomfortable."

And just like that Imogen let go of Tom and hurried back to the motor, across the road from where they had come to on the green.

Turning to Sybil, Tom said with a smile, "She is quite something. Was she always so . . ."

"Effervescent? I'm afraid so. She is very nice, in spite of all her talking, and she supports women's rights." Sybil stopped at this and laughed quietly. "In her own way, anyway."

"It behooves me to say that any friend of yours is a friend of mine, but you would make friends with—"

"The devil himself?" Sybil put in with a smile. "Mary said as much this morning. I suppose being more discriminating would make me a more interesting person."

"I beg to differ," he said leaning in a little to whisper. "Your willingness to give everyone a chance is the thing I love best about you."

Sybil blushed as his use of the words "I love" and "you" in the same breath. Realizing the intimacy of what he'd said in this public a setting, Tom looked down a bit shyly and took a step back. He added, "The world would be a different place if we were all so good as you."

"You're not so bad yourself."

Tom smiled. "Well, I shall do my best emulate your relentless patience and endeavor to be very kind to your friend this evening."

"I'm sure she would like that, but you may do so only as long as you don't give her any ideas," Sybil said.

"Ideas like what?"

"That you like her better than me."

Tom laughed, and Sybil did as well. The two looked over to where Imogen was already seated in the motor. Seeing them turning to her, she perked up and waved her handkerchief at them.

"We'll see you tonight, then?" Sybil asked.

"You will. I have something to give you."

"What could that be?"

"You'll just have to wait," he said with a playful smile.

They said their goodbyes and Sybil turned to head to the motor.

Watching her old friend walk toward her, Imogen smiled. Though Sybil and Tom might not have noticed, she had kept her eye on them the whole time and saw rather easily the attachment between them. Because if Miss Imogen Wilkes was expert at anything other than the latest trends in fashion, it was matters of the heart.

_It is just like lovely demure Sybil not to say she has a beau._

Imogen thought of how unlike herself Sybil was and how much she had missed her calming influence. She couldn't imagine a better person to share such a milestone as a debut. And, Imogen supposed, if _she_ could not have the attention of someone so handsome as Tom Branson, it was only right that someone as good as Sybil did.

As Sybil stepped into the back seat next to Imogen and sat down, she said, "I hope it was an enjoyable afternoon."

Imogen took Sybil's hand. "Anything is enjoyable in the company of a good friend."

Sybil squeezed her hand back. "How perfectly well said."

"Amongst the multitude pebbles that tumble out of my mouth, every so often one can find a gem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the mention of Vogue. The reason Martha sends the girls the magazine is that it didn't start printing in the UK until 1916.


	23. Some Pamphlets and an Admission

 

With guests in the house, Carson had Downton Abbey's staff working doubly hard, which meant that Gwen could not come up to dress Sybil for dinner. Instead, Anna came into Sybil's room after she finished with Mary, and Sybil—fearing that her mother might make another surprise appearance to "test" her and not wanting to get another maid in trouble—didn't bother with insisting that she could do it all herself. It wasn't until Anna had left and Sybil moved to sit at her vanity to put on her jewelry that she discovered one of the advantages of dressing herself: Sybil was much less punishing when it came to the tightness of her corset.

Sybil had never enjoyed wearing a corset, but it hadn't been until the last year that she'd started resenting the so-called "need" to do so. Sybil remembered with clarity the first time that she'd worn undergarments with fitted lacings at age thirteen. She had made a bit of a fight of it, of course, but her mother insisted, making all kinds of arguments in the corset's favor, not landing on a winning one until she focused on the idea that it would make Sybil feel more grown up.

When Sybil started dressing herself (after the family's move to Downton Place left Anna with insufficient time to see to all of her duties and all three girls), Sybil loved the feeling of purpose doing so gave her, especially at the start of the day. On this night, she understood that dressing herself also gave her _control_. Anna was only doing her duty, of course, so Sybil didn't blame her for the discomfort, but she had heard of lady's maids (O'Brien for one), who were taught to judge their charges if they relented even one little bit on the standards of dress. Sybil had already begun to question whether she would ever want a proper lady's maid, but she had not vocalized the idea, knowing what Robert, Cora and Violet would say and not wanting to have that fight before it was necessary. The very idea that her parents would have any opinion on the subject at all rankled her all the more. Sybil was the daughter of an earl and wealthy beyond the hopes of most in the county, but apparently, even as a woman of her position, her body wasn't entirely her own. It was a startling realization, but Sybil was glad for it. Identifying something that troubled her put her in a position to push back.

Today, she would start by loosening the blasted thing.

Knowing that Anna had gone to Edith next, Sybil walked over to her room. Anna was helping Edith with a necklace when she walked in.

"Golly, my corset's tight, Anna. When you've done that, would you be an angel and loosen it a bit?"

"The start of the slippery slope," Edith said.

Sybil looked over at her sister with annoyance as Anna started work on the buttons of her dress. "I'm not putting on weight."

"It didn't shrink in the drawer."

Sybil rolled her eyes, about to respond when Mary came in.

"Are you coming down?" Mary asked.

Without answering her, Sybil went on, "I don't know why we bother with corsets. Men don't wear them and they look perfectly normal in their clothes."

"Not all of them," Mary said, haughtily.

"She's just showing off," Edith said. "She'll be on about the vote in a minute."

Edith's dismissive tone angered Sybil. She checked her temper, but spoke in her own defense just the same. "If you mean, do I think women should have the vote, of course I do."

"I hope you won't chain yourself to the railings and end up being force fed semolina," Edith said.

"What do you think, Anna?" Mary asked.

"I think those women are very brave," Anna said with a smile as she worked to loosen the lacings of Sybil's dress.

"Hear, hear," Sybil cheered, glad that someone in the room was on her side.

Mary rolled her eyes, while Edith snickered.

"You are incorrigible, Sybil," Edith said.

Just as she spoke, there was a light knock on the door.

"Come in," Edith said.

It was Imogen. "Here you all are! And don't you just look lovely."

"What do you make of corsets, Imogen?" Mary asked, pointedly looking Sybil. "Are you, too, a disciple of Sybil's radical thinking?"

"They're devices of torture, of course! Dear Sybil and I have not discussed the topic, I'm afraid, but I declare any woman who claims they are very comfortable to be an unabashed liar. I'd stop wearing one altogether if my mama weren't so dictatorial when it came to such things, and if I weren't such a slave to fashion. It is true, after all, that dresses are built to be worn with corsets. Such a pity, because much as I enjoy bodily comfort, I do like to look my best. But it's only one among the many sacrifices we women must make. When my cousin Elizabeth was with child, she said not having to wear a corset was the most wonderful feeling the world and declared she'd never wear one again, but then the child came and she declared _that_ pain to be worse than a thousand corsets and so happily put it back on when the time came. It made me quite afraid of childbirth. A thousand corsets?! Heavens, what that must be like! I don't suppose I'll be a very good mother, but I certainly won't insist on a corset at age seven as mama did. If nothing else, I hope the designers of tomorrow loosen things up, so to speak."

Anna had finished about halfway through Imogen's chatter, and as Imogen continued to speak, Sybil walked over to Imogen and took her arm. Sybil looked at Mary from the side of her eyes, knowing that Mary had goaded Imogen with the hope that Imogen and Sybil would disagree. "Do you think if more women worked in fashion design, they'd be more likely to leave the corset behind?" Sybil asked Imogen.

"Well, giving credit where it's due, Poiret is already taking some very interesting steps in that direction," Imogen said, winking when she said the name, knowing that he'd helped inspire Sybil's ideas about her new frock. "But are you not familiar with Coco Chanel? She's a wonderful milliner in France. Her hats are simply to die for. And she's just opened her first boutique on the coast. I read in _Les Modes_ —father has it brought over from Paris for me—that she's begun to make casual wear for women in _jersey_ fabric, if it can be believed! Who but a woman would have had such a marvelous idea! It's so deliciously soft! It's perfect! Oh, Sybil, she shall be a charter member of our revolutionary club and ensure we are at the cutting edge of modern thought and haute couture! Do you think she supports the vote?"

Sybil grinned and turned to her sisters, "I don't know. What do you two think?"

"I think it's time to go downstairs" Mary said and walked out of the room, with Edith and Anna, who could barely contain her amusement, following behind her.

"Oh, dear, is she very unhappy with me, do you think?" Imogen asked. "Not that it matters, I do not bother myself with people who are always cross. I suppose that's why Mary and I never got on."

"Mary is not usually happy with anyone," Sybil said with a smile.

"Pity, she has such a lovely smile, but never mind that, did we agree on the issue of corsets? I am in suspense!"

"Not on all points for I would never consider myself a slave to fashion, but the important ones."

"Which were what?" Imogen asked.

"The torture, to start with."

Imogen giggled. "Shall we go down, then? I'm rather anxious for dinner. I know mama says eating beyond what is appropriate will make my corset tighter still, but I do enjoy a good meal far too much to concern myself with that. I wonder if I write to _Les Modes_ if they'd write an article on Miss Chanel's political inclinations."

With that, the two girls walked down to dinner.

* * *

 

Upon entrance into the drawing room, Tom was immediately accosted by Imogen, who drew him into a spirited discussion that Sybil watched with amusement from across the room.

Initially, the subject was whether the men of the Liberal Party were particularly fashionable or were perhaps in need of her expert advice on the matter of personal presentation—"Papa would be very pleased to know I'm discussing politics, but perhaps less so that I was not speaking in support of his own cause."

Eventually, it landed on Sybil—"She just such a lovely friend! Don't you think Sybil is lovely?"

When Carson called them into the dining room, Imogen had just broached the subject of new clothes and suggested that Sybil would have something special to show the family soon, if she was allowed to have her way—"Dear Cora is just like mama in that regard. I simply will never understand why we must fight our own mothers to be mistresses of our sartorial fates."

The bulk of the words were, naturally, spoken from Imogen's mouth, but Tom weathered them with his promised patience and by the end of the quarter of an hour he'd sat with her he could discern a measure of the sweet, lively charm that Sybil gave Imogen credit for.

Once the party walked through for dinner, Tom took the position between the chatty Imogen and the always challenging Violet, a pair who so demanded his undivided attention he scarcely had time to eat in going back and forth between them. On the whole, though, dinner was uneventful until it was time for dessert, when Sir John took the first bite and, unfortunately for dear Mrs. Patmore, came upon an unpleasant surprise.

"Oh, Go—God!" He cried out, spitting out the pudding into his napkin immediately.

"What on earth?" Robert exclaimed.

"I do apologize," Sir John said, "but I had a mouthful of salt."

"What?" Cora took a bit of her own dessert, and to her utter dismay and embarrassment, it tasted horrid. "Everyone, put down your forks. Carson, remove this. Bring fruit. Bring cheese. Bring anything to take this taste away. Sir John, I am so sorry."

Imogen, unable to help herself, took her own bite. Her lips puckered in distaste, but she swallowed the bite just the same. "I wouldn't choose to salt vanilla pudding, but I am not entirely opposed to something tart for dessert. Perhaps if there were raspberries."

Mary whose already short patience for Imogen had run dry hours ago couldn't help but want to laugh at the absurdities that continued to spill out of her mouth. She took her napkin and turned to her right and found Matthew, who had turned in her direction to hide his own mirth. Mary held her napkin to her face but looking at Matthew, he could see her squeeze her eyes together and grin widely. It was the first time that he saw a crack in the outer shell that was always— _always_ —the very definition of stoic composure. He couldn't think of a time that Mary had ever looked more beautiful. He was not one to laugh at other people's expense, but in this moment, he couldn't help but want to laugh with Mary.

"Fains I be Mrs. Patmore's kitchen maid when the news gets out," Robert said with a smile.

"Poor girl," Sybil said, knowing from Gwen how sensitive Daisy was. "We ought to send in a rescue party."

Cora turned to Lady Priscilla. "Oh, Priscilla, I can't tell how embarrassed I am about all of this. You must think us very disorganised."

"Not at all," she responded with a smile, "These things happen."

"Oh, they do!" Imogen put in. "Our dear footman Anthony once spilled a carafe of red wine onto the lap of the mayor of New York. Mama was mortified and I—"

"Imogen, please!" Her mother interrupted, but after doing so, Priscilla saw that all eyes were on her. She sighed and, with a smile, retold the whole story as Alfred and Thomas passed out the makeshift dessert course that Carson had ordered. Imogen added in much needed details as her mother went along, and the table laughed at each one.

The mood was not quite so jovial downstairs, where, once news of the cooking error spread, the sound of Mrs. Patmore's crying had begun to fill the servants' hall. The cook was sitting, with a small crowd gathered around her.

"Hey, come on. It's not that bad. Nobody's died," Anna said while patting her on the back, trying to offer a bit a comfort.

"I don't understand it," Mrs. Patmore said between sobs. "It must've been that Daisy. She's muddled everything up before."

Daisy's eyes widened in fear. "But I never—"

"Don't worry, Daisy, you're not in the line of fire here," Carson cut her off, already suspecting what had gone wrong.

"I know that pudding," Mrs. Patmore insisted. "I chose it 'cause I knew it."

"Which is why you wouldn't let her ladyship have the pudding she wanted because you didn't know it," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Exactly," Mrs. Patmore replied.

Mrs. Hughes and Carson exchanged glances. They'd both known that something had been ailing the cook and were equally sorry that it had come to a head quite like this.

"I don't see how it happened," Mrs. Patmore continued.

Carson motioned with his head to Bates, who took the cue to clear the room.

"Come on, everyone," he said. "Let's give Mrs Patmore some room to breathe." Seeing Anna lingering, Bates added, "You, too."

"I don't think I should leave her," she said, an expression of concern on her face.

"Yes, you should. Mr. Carson knows what he's doing."

As the rest of the staff moved to leave, Carson pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Patmore and opened the stove next to her.

"Oh, don't do that," she said as he refreshed the coals. "Get Alfred or the hall boy to do it. It's beneath your dignity."

"It won't kill me. Now, all in your own good time." Carson took her hand and with a kindly expression said, "I think you've got something to tell me, haven't you?"

Mrs. Patmore tried to contain her tears, but they wouldn't stop, not with what she was now facing. "I . . . I can't—my vision, Mr. Carson. Well, it's going."

Carson let out a big sigh, hearing the secret finally spoken aloud.

"I could almost manage," Mrs. Patmore continued, "For a long time knowing the kitchen and where everything was kept, even with that fool girl."

"I think you might owe Daisy an apology."

"Maybe. I had a lot to put up with, I can tell you."

"And you've not been to a doctor?"

"I don't need a doctor to tell me I . . . I'm going blind. A blind cook, Mr. Carson. What a joke. Whoever heard of such a thing? A blind cook."

* * *

"So what do you have for me?"

Tom turned from where he was leaning over the billiard table and smiled seeing Sybil walk in and close the door behind her. "I don't think you are supposed to be in here."

"And what are you doing here?" She asked coming over to the table.

"I am allergic to cigar smoke."

"You are?"

Tom laughed, leaning his cue stick against the table. "Not actually. It's my excuse not to have to sit with the _gentlemen_ after the ladies have left dinner."

"I thought you rather liked talking with papa."

"I do, and we've had some lively discussions in the library and in the drawing room and parlor before and after dinner. I just don't like the practice of excluding women, so if there are men around other than Matthew and myself with whom he can converse I make my escape."

"Does papa know?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he does." Tom smiled and added, "I suppose it's on the list of my terrible character deficiencies he puts up with."

"Your support of women's rights being at the top of that list?" Sybil said, rather proudly.

"The socialism might have that beat, but it's a close second."

They looked at each other across the table, smiling until Sybil broke the stare, looking down at her fingers. "So . . ."

"Oh, right!" Tom took several papers from his inside jacket pocket and handed them over to her. "I brought some pamphlets that I thought might interest you about the vote."

Sybil's eyes widened in delight and she moved to walk around the table. He met her halfway. "Thank you!" She said leafing through the pamphlets excitedly.

He smiled at her eagerness.

Looking back up at him, she opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again.

"What?" He asked.

"Well . . . perhaps we shouldn't mention this to papa or granny. One whiff of reform and she hears the rattle of the guillotine."

"It seems rather unlikely," he said, putting on an air of mock concern, "the daughter of an earl a revolutionary?"

"Maybe," Sybil said, lifting her nose in the air. "But I'm a suffragette, not a revolutionary. And I won't always be merely the daughter of an earl." Her smiled faded and she tilted her head to one side. "At least, I hope that's not the title that defines me my whole life."

"I don't believe it defines you now."

Sybil gave him a grateful smile.

Tom smiled and tilted his head toward the two arm chairs next to the fireplace.

"So will you have your way, do you think, with the frock?" Tom asked as they sat down.

Sybil furrowed her brow at him. "How do you know about that?"

"Imogen hinted that you had something up your sleeve so long as you were allowed to order what you preferred when you go to the dressmaker this week."

Sybil smiled. "We'll have to wait and see—but I hope so. I'm surprised she mentioned that to you."

"Well, then you'll be surprised to know that she spoke to me mostly of you."

"She did?"

"Were you expecting otherwise?"

"I'm not sure what I was expecting to be honest. It's been so long since we've been friends, I had wondered whether we'd find anything around which to relate to one another."

"You said she was a suffragette herself."

"She is a thoroughly modern woman," Sybil said with a smile. "I'm glad that her parents decided to visit us. It will be nice to have someone with whom I can share the season next year."

"Is she in the drawing room with the others?"

"No, she excused herself to go to bed. They left Liverpool quite early this morning and she was very tired. I offered to walk her upstairs. Her desire for company as she changed into her nightclothes will be my excuse when I return and they wonder where I've been."

Tom smiled. "I'm glad you found me here. And that you have rediscovered a good friend."

"You know, one of the best parts of seeing her again has been the memories of myself as a young girl that her presence has evoked. We were always very different, but somehow our differences were always complementary, rather than a cause for strife between us. I expected those differences to have either been magnified or disappeared over the time we were apart, because I expected us to have grown to be different from whom we were as children. But we're the same—that is to say, _I_ am the same. I don't mean to say I haven't evolved in my thoughts or ideas, only that the root of the ideas that I hold now were always there. Do you understand?"

Tom chuckled.

"What?"

"You are always asking me if I understand what you mean or if I think something that you've told me makes sense."

"I am?"

He nodded. "The truth is you never need to do that with me. This may be bold, but I believe I understand you better than most."

Sybil looked at him for a long moment. "What makes you believe that so certainly?"

"Because you understand me better than anyone."

Tom held his hand out to her, and she leaned over and took it, interlacing their fingers.

"We should go back," he said quietly, looking at their hands together.

"Do you want to?" She asked in a whisper.

"No, which is how I know we should," he said with a rueful smile.

He stood and helped her up. He had expected her to blush at his words, all he saw in her expression was something that looked to him like confidence.

"I never thought it would feel so . . . empowering," she said.

"What would feel empowering?" He asked.

"If you're not going to say it aloud then I'm not going to either."

They left the room hand in hand and grinning at one another.

* * *

Not too long after Tom and Sybil rejoined the party, Lady Priscilla and Sir John made their excuses, and Isobel, Matthew and Tom took their leave as well.

Sybil opened the door to her room feeling as happy as she had in some time. She rang her bell, with the hope that Gwen would be able to come up and began to undress.

A few minutes later Gwen came in quietly with a crestfallen expression that Sybil, too wrapped up in her own excitement, did not immediately notice.

"Oh, Gwen! I'm so happy you're here!"

Sybil crossed the room to her wardrobe and pulled out a woman's suit.

"Imogen said something today about women dressing for success, and as she said it, it occurred to me that you need the perfect suit for your interview."

She pulled out a maroon garment and held it out for Gwen to see.

"Well, I won't be wearing it, milady," Gwen said quietly.

"Of course you will! We have to make you look like a successful professional woman."

Unable to keep her composure, Gwen felt a new onset of tears and sat on the edge of Sybil's bed.

Seeing her distress, Sybil came over and sat next to her. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Well, I won't wear it because I'm not going. They've cancelled the appointment. They've found someone more suited for the post and better qualified."

Sybil's shoulders drooped, but she encouraged her friend just the same. "That's just what's happened _this_ time."

"Let's face it," Gwen said, shaking her head. "There will never be anyone less suited for the post or worse qualified than I am."

"That isn't true. You'll see. We're not giving up. No one hits the bull's eye with the first arrow."

"That may be true, milady, but some of us don't have that many arrows to start with."

Sybil took Gwen's hand. "I wish there was something I could say to take away the sting."

"It's all right, milady, I shouldn't burden you with it."

"Don't be silly, Gwen, I'm your friend. I'm the first person you should come to."

Gwen smiled a genuine smile, even through her tears. "Thank you. That does help a bit."

"I'm so glad."

Gwen sighed. "So did you taste the offensive pudding?"

"I'm afraid not. Imogen did. She told me she wanted to be able to describe it exactly when she told the story later—though she did promise to keep Mrs. Patmore's name out of it."

"She was in a state. Do you, um . . . do you think she'll be sacked?"

"Not over this, but mama is concerned for her well being. I don't know what will happen."

"She's a nice lady, if a bit hard on poor Daisy. I guess all that can be done is hope for the best—for her health and her position."

Sybil nodded in agreement. Then, standing up, Gwen gestured for Sybil herself to stand so she could unbutton her dress. Sybil smiled and did so. They continued chatting casually until Sybil was ready for bed. Once Gwen had taken her leave, Sybil settled in to read the pamphlets Tom had given her.

After reading the first sentence of the first one she'd picked up a dozen times, Sybil threw her head back with a laugh.

_The cause will go absolutely nowhere_ , she thought, _if any more of the women who support it fall in love_.

* * *

**A week later**

"But how could she be wearing _trousers_?"

For the last five minutes Tom had been trying to no avail to describe to his mother what Sybil had been wearing when she'd walked into the drawing room earlier that evening.

"They weren't trousers like I'm wearing," he said, with the smile he'd been wearing since he laid eyes on Sybil as she strode proudly into the room and blithely said, "Good evening, everyone!"

"So what were they like?!"

"They were . . . fluffy, like a skirt, only they were . . ."

"Only they were trousers?"

Tom laid his head on the kitchen table, where they'd been sitting alone since he'd gotten back. "I can't describe them. It's not use, anyway, since I wouldn't be doing them justice if I tried."

Claire smiled at her son. He'd avoided the topic of Lady Sybil since Claire had had the chance to meet her, and for the most part—other than some gentle, motherly teasing—she'd let him. But tonight, since he'd walked in to see her, he'd wanted to talk of nothing else.

When he lifted his head up, the goofy expression of love of his face was enough to bring tears to Claire's eyes.

Seeing them, Tom sat up. "What is it?"

Claire shook her head. "Nothing. So she looked nice, then?"

"Well, acknowledging that she could wear a potato sack and still look beautiful"—Claire took a breath here, to keep herself from rolling her eyes at how far gone he was—"I reckon she's never looked better."

"I can only imagine."

Tom's looked into his mother's eyes with a serious expression and confessed what she already knew. "I'm in love with her."

"You don't say," Claire said, sarcasm plain in her voice.

Tom smiled and looked down at his hands.

"What do you plan to do about it?" She asked. "She's still very young."

"I don't know." He let out a long sigh. "If things were different . . . if I were their chauffeur, say, and I _knew_ that they'd be against it, the answer would be easy—I'd ask her to run away with me. But they way thing are? It's not that simple. I like Robert and Cousin Violet, but I know them well enough to know that . . . "

"That what?"

"That they'd hesitate."

"And you need their approval?"

"I can hardly believe I'm saying it, but . . . I _want_ it. And even if I know she'd be prepared not to have it, I think she would too."

Claire sighed. "Well, you've made yourself invaluable to them. Perhaps, if enough time passes, when you do tell them—that you want to marry her, I mean—it will have ceased to matter."

"How much time is that, do you think?"

"She's out next year, correct?"

"Yes."

"At least until then. In the meantime, continue to be her good friend. True love was never harmed by a bit of waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Les Modes, the magazine Imogen mentions, is a French fashion magazine.


	24. "A Mess Since I Met You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets into Thomas's head for the first time. If you remember, Thomas knows Pamuk wanted to go into the girls' rooms. In this story, he has kept that secret to himself. On the show, he tells O'Brien about Pamuk and Mary and he sends a letter to a valet he knows in London about it, which is how the rumors about Mary start. Why Thomas kept the secret in this version of events and what was going through his mind at the time is addressed here and the Pamuk matter is put to rest for good (I have zero plans to drag it out the way the show did).
> 
> I'm not sure how people will respond to how I've written Thomas and his interaction with Sybil since he's not an easy character to like, especially in season one, when he was basically just a villain. I am trying to get into the inner turmoil that comes from being closeted at a time homosexuality was illegal. Again, not sure how successful it is, but at the very least, the seed of Thomas's friendship with Sybil during the war is planted here, even though it will be some time before we see it grow.

 

**May 1913, Two weeks later**

"Who's that from, Papa?" Mary asked. "You seem very absorbed."

Robert and the girls were sitting down to breakfast three days before the family would be moving to London for the month to do the season. Both Mary and Edith had come to see it all as a bit routine, but their parents couldn't help but be anxious about the possibility of another summer spent among a set increasingly curious as to why Crawley girls could not settle on husbands. The letter in Robert's hand was not helping matters.

"Your Aunt Rosamund," he said with a serious look on his face.

"Anything interesting?" Edith asked.

"Nothing to trouble you with."

"Poor Aunt Rosamund," Sybil said, coming from the serving table to sit down with her plate. "All alone in that big house. I feel so sorry for her."

"I don't!" Mary said with a wry smile. "All alone with plenty of money and a house in Eton Square? I can't imagine anything better."

His eldest daughter's words, her attitude really, cut to what had been worrying Robert about the month in London, and he couldn't help but react, angrily pushing the letter from one hand to the other. "Really, Mary, I wish you wouldn't talk like that. There will come a day when someone thinks you mean what you say."

But his words rolled off of Mary's shoulders easily. "It can't come soon enough for me," she said looking to Edith, who held Mary's gaze for a moment before looking away to pick up her juice.

It seemed to Edith that Mary, just then, in her complaints about a world that did not take her seriously, had looked to her for . . . _validation_? As if only Edith would understand and commiserate with her feelings. Robert might have reacted to what seemed like snobbery in Mary's words, but Edith was the authority on her sister's superior airs, having been their most consistent target. And what Edith had sensed in Mary in that moment was boredom and disillusionment, two things Edith herself was intimately acquainted with. It was startling to Edith to see Mary so plainly grim about her own future.

After a moment's silence, Robert stood to leave. "Carson, I'll be in the library. Will you let me know when her ladyship is down?"

"Certainly, my lord," Carson replied.

With their father gone, Edith said sardonically, "So you've lost all hope, then? And with the start of the season just around the corner."

"I should take your counsel on impending spinsterhood given how well you know from hopelessness," Mary replied, not bothering to look back at Edith.

"Mary!" Sybil exclaimed.

Mary looked back and forth between her sisters. "Oh, it's just old habit. Edith doesn't mind."

"She's right," Edith said, looking at Sybil with a forced smile. "Why should I when nobody ever minds me?"

Mary put in, "I wasn't inviting you to feel sorry for yourself—"

Edith snorted. "Oh, weren't you!?"

"No!" Mary said. She let out a sigh and continued. "I don't rue Aunt Rosamund's solitude because it is her own. She could marry again if she so desired, but the fact is she wants for neither position, nor security. Why should I not envy her situation when I've grown so tired of the absurdity of having to parade around society I'm not at all interested in keeping. Aren't you tired of it?"

"How could I grow tired of something that has never been about me?" Edith asked pointedly.

Mary rolled her eyes. "So you can dig at me about not being married yet, but I—"

Sybil slammed her fork down on the table, starling even Carson, who was trying desperately to disappear into the wall, not eager to see the girls quarreling like this. "Oh, stop it, will you both? Why does anything have to be a dig at anyone. Can't we just have a conversation?"

Both wide-eyed, Edith and Mary looked from Sybil to one another and, for reasons only those with sisters will understand, immediately set to giggling. Rather puzzled at the sudden change in mood, Sybil nevertheless joined them in laughter.

"Dear Sybil, it's as if you didn't know us," Edith said. "I don't think we're capable of being cordial."

"Not to one another," Mary added. "It's in the laws of nature, don't you know."

Sybil smiled. "If you're saying that nobody understands you two but yourselves, I will agree with that because I certainly don't."

"I do hope you enjoy this summer, darling," Mary said with a smile, "because next year there will be no saving you."

* * *

Later that morning, Robert finally found Cora sitting in the garden and sorting through some papers.

"Busy?" He asked as she approached.

"I'm just trying to sort out the wretched arrangements for the London house," she replied.

"I've had a letter from Rosamund," he said.

"Don't tell me," Cora said with a smirk, "she wants a saddle of lamb and all the fruit and vegetables we can muster."

"She enjoys a taste of her old home."

Cora couldn't keep herself from smiling, forcing Robert to acknowledge what he would never say aloud. "She enjoys not paying for food."

"But there's something else," Robert said. "Apparently, the word is going 'round London that Evelyn Napier has given up any thought of Mary, that he's going to marry one of the Sempill girls. She writes as if somehow it reflects badly on Mary."

"Your dear sister's always such a harbinger of joy."

Robert sat down on the bench next to his wife. "The crux of the talk is that Mary has given up on the idea of marriage altogether, which, of course, is leading to ridiculous conjecture. Napier is popular in London, but all thought him lost to their daughters when he visited here. You can only imagine what people said when he left Downton unattached."

"Well, I don't believe Mr. Napier would have supported any such conjecture."

"Neither do I, really, but—"

"She ought to be married. Talk to her."

Robert let out a mirthless laugh. "She never listens to me. If she did, she'd marry Matthew."

"What about Anthony Strallan?"

"Anthony Strallan is at least my age and as dull as paint. I doubt she'd want to sit next to him at dinner, let alone marry him."

"She has to marry someone, Robert. I concede that London gossip bothers me less than it bothers you and your mother, but I also don't want her to hear it and be diminished by it, not when she's been more calm and at peace about her lack of inheritance these last months. The bottom line is, she has to marry soon."

* * *

That afternoon, on the stairs that led to the servants' rooms, Thomas was walking up with irritation festering in him.

He'd been careless.

His jaw was set in anger, mostly at himself, though a healthy dose of it was also directed at Bates. Had anyone else caught him in Carson's office, putting the cellar key back on its hook after he'd nicked some wine, he would have shrugged it off and happily enjoyed the bottle without another thought. But no, it had to be Bates.

_Everyone's favorite martyr_ , Thomas thought darkly.

In truth, though, Thomas really had no one to blame but himself. It wasn't the first bottle he'd ever taken by a long shot, but he usually took care to do his pilfering when he knew the servants hall to be clear, either early in the morning or late at night. The urge to take it having come in the middle of the day, he should have checked himself and waited to later that night. Or, better, to three days hence, when most of the family would be gone to London and half the staff with them. It was carelessness pure and simple.

Or it was a "death" wish. Every so often Thomas felt rising in him a desire to be caught in some sort of mischief so he'd be dismissed and he'd finally be freed from the shackles of service. He'd have no reference, of course, and no clear path to a new position. But perhaps it would be for the best. Life as a footman was no life at all. Not for someone like him. Best to go on his own terms or be dismissed for something other than the truth, _his_ truth, which would land him behind bars.

Thomas laughed at himself as he stepped into his room, laying himself down on his bed. He knew his bravado was false. He couldn't let himself be caught. He could think about it all he wanted, but the truth was he was scared to leave, and that fear was bigger than hatred toward his job and toward a certain valet. Downton Abbey was many things, but it was not prison.

Months ago, he'd been forced to face that fear head on. His encounter with the now dead Turk made his discovery, for one interminable day, a very real possibility. Seeing the Turk dead the following morning, so deep and intense was Thomas's relief that he practically fainted, dropping the tray he'd been carrying when he saw the man sprawled out on the floor. Only too happy to let go of the worry, Thomas didn't consider until he was in bed that night where and in what state of mind he had left Pamuk when he'd last seen him alive. Thomas didn't know what, if anything, had happened in Lady Sybil's room or Lady Mary's. Like the rest of the family, they were shocked to hear of his death, but neither of the two behaved as if anything outside of the ordinary had happened, certainly not as if the deceased was someone who'd recently shared their beds. Thomas was not naïve. He knew young women of their rank occasionally proved themselves less than virtuous, but he couldn't quite convince himself that that was true in the case of the Crawley daughters.

Lady Mary had spent all day flirting with the Turk, so if Thomas were a betting man, his money would be on her. Still, in Thomas's mind, when it came down to it, Mary's very haughtiness—and what Thomas perceived in her to be a desire to be thought better than everyone else—would have compelled her to keep the man at bay, if only to prove that she was as good as she believed herself to be.

Thomas wasn't sure what to make of Lady Sybil. She was well-loved among the staff for her sweet, forgiving nature, and he knew she'd barely spoken to the Turk, which led Thomas to believe there was no interest on her part. He briefly wondered if the man forced himself on her, but nothing in the family's reactions to his death—certainly not Lady Sybil's—suggested anything of that sort had happened. He might have told O'Brien the next day to see what she thought, but before he had a chance to do so, Carson announced that a new footman would be hired. O'Brien immediately suggested her nephew Alfred and from that moment until Alfred was actually on the premises, he was all O'Brien could speak of. So it was that the Turk and what might or might not have happened in the bedrooms of Lady Mary and Lady Sybil had been, more or less, forgotten.

Thomas stood up from his bed, hid the bottle underneath his mattress and headed back downstairs, trying to push away all thought of leaving Downton—or being caught—from his mind but not succeeding all that well. He'd not made it all the way down the stairs, when he saw Mrs. Hughes coming up.

"Oh, Thomas, there you are. Can you go clear off the tea in the library?"

"And where's young Alfred?" Thomas asked, snippily.

Mrs. Hughes let out an exasperated sigh. "Young Alfred is outside with the hall boys polishing the platters Mr. Carson will be taking to the London house tomorrow. I'll be happy to ask him to clear if you would rather be doing that?"

Thomas rolled his eyes and turned back upstairs. The library was empty when he walked in. After grabbing the tray from one of the side tables, he picked up the first tea cup rather carelessly and the cup slid off the saucer. Before Thomas could react, the cup fell, hitting the table again on its way down and breaking into a handful of small shards.

"Oh, dear!"

Thomas looked up to see Sybil coming toward him. _Perfect_ , he thought. "I'm sorry, milady, it just slipped," he said, trying to hold back his frustration.

"Don't apologize, please. It's just a tea cup," she said, bending down with him to help pick up the pieces, setting them on the tray. The gesture took him aback.

"Not sure Mr. Carson will see it that way," Thomas said, with a sigh.

Sybil snickered. "You're likely right. I've learned that not even papa clings to the rules quite like Carson."

Thomas smiled in spite of himself. He was about to say something in response when—just his luck—Carson came in and stopped in his tracks at the door, because, of course, the sight of a lady of the house helping a footman was not at all acceptable.

"What is the meaning of this, Thomas!?"

Before he could begin to answer, though, Thomas saw Sybil reach for the second teacup on the table, which Carson could not see from where he was standing. She intentionally spilled its contents onto her skirt and quickly set it back where it had been. She winked at Thomas and turned before he had a chance to say a word.

"I do apologize, Carson, as this was entirely my fault. I came back for my book and in reaching for it I knocked over my teacup. I'm terribly sorry for my clumsiness, though as you can see I've suffered the consequences." This last she said gesturing to the stain on her skirt.

"That's quite all right, milady, but you don't need to trouble yourself with the cleanup. Thomas can take care of it."

"Oh, I know. He came in just before you did as I was trying to wipe off my skirt. I suppose I should have gotten out of his way," she said turning to Thomas. "Do go on, Thomas. I'll not be a nuisance." Sybil picked up from the sofa the book that she had, in fact, left behind and returned for, and then moved to an armchair on the other side of the room to read, giving Carson a bright smile as she sat down.

Thomas bent back down to pick up what remained of the broken tea cup, and Carson, satisfied that all was well, left the library once again.

Thomas let out a sigh of relief as he left, and looked over at Sybil, her nose already buried in the book and apparently wholly unconcerned about the tea stain on her skirt.

Once everything was on the tray, Thomas moved toward the door, but hesitated and then with what resolve he could muster walked back to where Sybil was sitting.

"Milady, may I ask why you did that just now?"

Sybil smiled. "I said that it was just a teacup, but when Carson came in, it occurred to me that it's only a teacup if I'm the one who breaks it. If it is broken by you, it becomes something of value that may be held over your head. Seems a bit unfair."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Thank you." He let out a small laugh, then added, "I hope your skirt was not too great a sacrifice to save my skin."

"Thomas, you don't know me very well if you think an object like a skirt means more to me than the feelings of a person."

Thomas was moved by the sentiment, but the whole incident—the way she spoke to Carson, in particular—sparked something else in his mind.

_Lady Sybil is a good liar._

He turned to go, but hesitated for a moment, which did not escape her notice.

"Was there something else?" Sybil asked him.

Thomas turned back to her. "I wonder if I may ask, milady, if you remember the foreign gentleman who stayed in the house last year and came to an untimely end?"

Sybil smiled even as her brow furrowed a bit in puzzlement. "How could anyone forget? I do remember him. Why do you ask?"

He looked at his feet. "I am . . . I was assigned to see to him while he was here and I—well, I found him. He was on the floor in the middle of his room. I don't know if he was coming or going . . . when he died, I mean. If he felt it coming on and was going to get help or if he was, um, coming back from having left his room."

Sybil tilted her head, unsure as to what Thomas was getting at. _Does he know?_   "I can only guess as to what may have been going through his mind," she said, finally.

Thomas shuffled his feet, suddenly wondering why he'd brought it up in the first place. He looked at her again and realized it was because he felt he owed her something. Just moments ago, she had saved him without knowing the extent to which she'd done so, and he felt compelled to apologize for a wrong she did not know he had committed. One worse than everything else put together.

"Well, I hope you weren't, um . . . _harmed_ by the whole affair," he said, a greater measure of shame in his voice than many who knew him would have thought him capable of.

And just like that, seeing him, hearing him, Sybil knew how Pamuk came to know how to find the door to her room and to Mary's. Pamuk, in his behavior in Mary's room, revealed himself to be a bully of the worst kind. _Had he abused Thomas in some way to garner the information?_  she wondered. Her face grew serious.

"I wasn't harmed," she whispered, finally.

Not sure how else to extricate himself from the conversation, Thomas turned to go, but was called back by her voice, a bit louder than before.

"And you?"

"Excuse me, milady?"

"Did he harm you in some way? Threaten you?"

"No harm came to me that I did not bring upon myself. I am sorry for my . . . disloyalty."

His last word startled Sybil. She blinked a few times absorbing what he was trying to say. "It's a job, Thomas, not a pledge of allegiance."

Thomas hesitated. "May I be frank?"

"Please."

"I'm afraid how you describe service is not how Mr. Carson sees it—or much of anyone who works in his position or even in mine. We are called on, not merely to work but to _serve_ , which is what I did not do that night. My instincts lean toward self preservation because . . . well, for reasons that I'll not trouble you with, but they make me selfish among the others."

Sybil considered his words for a moment. "Do _you_ consider yourself a selfish person?"

"I think it's all relative. I thought myself to be in danger, and I acted in the way my experience has taught me to do."

"I can't pretend to know what your life has been like, and ultimately nothing happened that's to be regretted, so I'll just thank you for being honest now—at least as far as you've been."

Thomas had been cavalier with her feelings and her future on that night, unwilling to put them ahead of his own, as others might have done. He'd convinced himself that her privilege would protect her, and even now he didn't know that given another chance he'd act differently. But she was more generous than he was. That much he could admit. In a world in which not many people had ever been kind to him, she was now among that precious few.

"I should get on with my duties," he said quietly. "Thank you, again, for . . . well, thank you."

"Thank you for telling me."

"For what it's worth, no one else knows. And that's how it shall remain."

With that, Thomas took his leave, and Sybil picked up her book again. After a few minutes, however, she found she couldn't concentrate on it. She stood and, still holding it, made her way outside, hoping that a walk would clear her mind.

After circling the garden, Sybil found herself walking toward the gate and taking the turn toward her and Tom's favorite spot by the creek. Her talk with Thomas had put her in a contemplative mood. It had been months since she had thought of Mr. Pamuk, Thomas had brought it all back—how Pamuk had invaded her privacy and what he had intended to do. She had not spoken to Mary about it since, and having made the promise with Mary to keep the whole incident secret, she had not spoken of it to anyone else either.

The feeling of empowerment she had felt at having subverted Pamuk's intentions was real, and it made her feel good about herself even now. But, in retrospect, she had to acknowledge that at the time she did not appreciate the danger that she would have been in had Pamuk found her in her room alone. Thomas's admission that he'd put his own interests ahead of hers and led him there had opened her eyes to it. She would have still fought Pamuk. She knew that to be true, and perhaps the outcome might have been the same—his death in his own room after being rebuffed. Sybil also knew that she owed the comfort and security she lived in to the family's army of servants. What she hadn't truly faced until today was the truth that at times of trouble those same people were expected to sacrifice themselves on her behalf. She wasn't sure how to react to that knowledge.

As Sybil approached the rock by the creek where she usually sat, splashing noises brought her out of her reverie and she realized that there was someone else there. Unsure as to who it could be, she moved to hide behind a tree and peeked around it. The sight she saw brought a smile to her face but also a bit of a blush to her cheeks.

It was Tom.

He had removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his trousers up to his knees to wade around in the creek. He also had removed his suit jacket, which he often did when the two met there so Sybil would have something clean to sit on. But that wasn't all. His waistcoat and tie were also off, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Finally, the top few buttons of his shirt were undone and a small patch of chest hair was visible where the shirt came open. Other than Pamuk, who had entered Mary's room in his robe that night, Sybil had never seen a man in this state of undress—certainly not one whom she found so attractive.

She watched Tom from where she stood for several minutes. His hands were in his pockets, and he was pacing back-and-forth in the creek. Every few minutes, he would lean down to pick up a rock throw across the water. He was doing just that when Sybil took a step forward to get a better view and stepped on a twig that snapped loudly beneath her feet. Tom turned to see who was there, but did so at such a speed that he lost his footing and quite unceremoniously landed on his rump in the shallow water.

Sybil quickly ran up to the edge of the creek to apologize and help him up but the sight of Tom soaked, sitting in the water looking like a hapless puppy, rendered her quite unable to speak.

Realizing who it was, he began to laugh and Sybil quickly joined him.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," she finally squeaked out.

"I suppose I should consider it payback for all the times I did it to you."

Tom stuck his hand out for her to help him up, and Sybil reached for it, but stopped herself just before she made contact. "Do you really need help or are you going to pull me in, in retaliation?"

"Well, I _wasn't_ , but it's not a terrible idea now that you've mentioned it."

Sybil crossed her arms in response.

He laughed again. "That was a joke. I won't pull you in, I promise."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You're just going to have to take the chance."

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him, but nevertheless, leaned forward and pulled him up. She didn't let his hand go right away and allowed herself the briefest glance down to his chest, which was all but exposed as the wet white shirt clung to him. When her eyes met his again, she could tell he was trying to suppress a grin at her expense. He winked at her and finally let go of her hand and moved away to try to sort himself out.

_Rascal_ , she thought, but she smiled just the same, not feeling terribly sorry that she'd caught him like this.

"At least it's a warm day," he said, running his hand through his hair to shake of the excess wetness.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be working?"

"I had a bit of a trying morning at the office, topped by an argument with one of the partners, so I left early."

"What was the quarrel about?"

"He wanted to ban the secretaries from attending political rallies."

"How disappointing!"

"Well, it's not really surprising. He is a bit conservative, but it was more about how it could look to clients which is absurd because I don't want any client who thinks he has a say over what I or anyone else there think on our own personal time. And nevermind the fact that clients never meet the secretaries or even—" Tom stopped himself short and laughed. "If I continue I'll just get irritated again, but suffice it to say, as I was caught up with my actual work, I decided I take the afternoon to cool off. I'm afraid that after a year working for someone else hasn't gotten easier."

"Do you wish you could establish your own firm again?" Sybil asked.

"I do, but I'd want to do it with Matthew and he wants to wait until we're a bit more established in the community. He's right, of course, but it doesn't make the waiting easier. If nothing else, the partnership does pay well."

Tom looked up to the sky and walked over to a tree where the sunlight was coming through unimpeded. He looked at Sybil for a moment before speaking again. "This is terribly forward of me, but would you mind if I removed my shirt so it can dry?"

Sybil's eyes widened. "Um."

Tom scratched his forehead, a bit embarrassed. "I'll put my waistcoat and jacket back on, but if we're going to talk for a while, I might as well take advantage of the sun."

Sybil smiled and went over to the rock where his things lay and picked them up to hand them to him before sitting down on the rock facing away from him, her book on her lap.

"Did you always want to be a solicitor?" She asked.

"Not really—I should say, when I went to university, I was interested in learning about the law, how it worked and how it affected people's lives. That had more to do with my interest in politics. I didn't have a profession in mind. I suppose Matthew having chosen it was an influence."

"But do you enjoy it?"

"I like helping people," Tom said as he hung his wet shirt on a tree branch. "But there's not much excitement in it, I'm afraid."

Sybil laughed. "It's more excitement than I have."

"Do you wish to work?" He asked watching her back, wishing the circumstances could let him see her face as she answered his question—one that was deeply important to him but that he'd not dared ask before now.

"I do—at least, I wish to be of use. But what could I possibly do without any sort of education or training?"

"You've had an education—it's not a traditional one, but—"

"I've read books, that's all."

"Do you not think there's knowledge in reading books?"

Sybil rolled her eyes and had to check herself so she didn't turn around. "Of course, I do, silly! I mean that other than a bit of help from you, my 'education' as you call it has been guided by my own hand."

"And you've done a good job of it." His voice was right next to her and Sybil turned to see him wearing his jacket and standing just next to the rock, but facing slightly away from her, presumably so she couldn't see what the jacket and waistcoat alone left exposed. The tie, she could see, was hanging on his right shoulder.

He turned his head to look at her and smiled.

"You're biased," she said, unable to repress her own smile.

"Am I?"

"Aren't you?"

He laughed. "I suppose I am. Doesn't make my assessment of your intelligence any less true."

"And that doesn't change the fact that there's no job for me out there."

"You could always go to a training college of some sort."

"Have you met my parents?"

"As a matter fact I have, but it so happens that I have also met you."

Sybil smiled, bashfully. "Well, mine is a long list of grievances. I'm choosing my battles carefully."

Tom laughed again. "That would be a battle, but you shouldn't give it up as lost before you start to fight it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Sybil watched as he walked over to the edge of the creek again and sank his toes, still bare, into the mud. "May I ask you something personal?" she ventured.

He turned his head toward her again. "Ask away."

"If Dr. Crawley hadn't been so good to you, what do you suppose you would have done? What profession would you have chosen?"

Tom faced the creek again to think about his answer. Sybil mistook his silence for offense.

"Actually, that was a bit impertinent," she said sheepishly. "You don't have to answer."

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's something I think about often, actually."

"Really?"

"Sure. I'm a bit haunted by the question, to be honest."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"As much as I like to think myself the master of my fate, the truth is without Uncle Reg, I couldn't really have gotten this far."

"You don't know that."

"I do, though. In ten lifetimes, my mother would never have been able to afford the education he gave me."

Sybil's shoulders slumped slightly, knowing his words to be essentially true.

"I do believe that it's possible for people to change their circumstances, as Gwen is doing. On my own, years of work might have landed me in the middle class at some point in my life," he continued. "But I got to start there, and that was thanks to him."

"Would that the rest of the world were as generous as he was," Sybil said, silently thanking a man she did not remember meeting for clearing the path that had brought Tom into her life in a way that allowed them to be as close as they were right now.

"Indeed." After a moment, Tom added, "I would've been a chauffeur, I think. To answer your original question."

Sybil closed her eyes trying to imagine him in Pratt's livery. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant picture.

She opened her eyes, hearing him speak up again. "The real question is," he said with cheek she could hear in his voice, "would you and I still be friends if I were your chauffeur instead of an adopted cousin?"

Sybil smiled. "You don't think as highly of me as you say you do if you don't know the answer to that question."

"We would never get to dine together," he said quietly.

She met his gaze and held it for a long moment. "We would have found a way."

Tom looked away, blushing ever so slightly. "Well, to the family's dismay, I likely would have spent my time planning a staff revolt, but I would have been _your_ very faithful servant."

His last words brought back to Sybil's mind her conversation with Thomas. She wanted to tell him, but how would he react?

"Tom?" She began quietly.

"Yes?"

"If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it secret?"

"Of course," he answered.

Sybil took a deep breath. "The Turkish man who was here last year with Mr. Evelyn Napier, do you remember him?"

Tom did remember Pamuk. And he remembered the way the man had looked at Sybil, a recollection that filled him with dread as he considered what she could possibly tell him that needed to be kept secret. "I remember," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

She looked down at her hands. "Well, I'm not sure how you'll react to this . . ."

Tom moved as close to her as he could without facing her directly. "What, Sybil?"

She sighed. "Mary wasn't feeling well that night, and I went to check on her after everyone had gone to bed. I can't remember the hour, but it was late. Anyway, he came into her room while I was there."

"WHAT!?" He turned to face her unable to contain his anger.

Sybil stood. "Nothing happened! You can perhaps guess his intentions—"

"Of course, I bloody can! Sybil how can you have kept this a secret?! It was an invasion of the highest order!"

"I know it was, but nothing happened, I swear it! I grabbed a poker from the fireplace as soon he came in and Mary and I fought him off. He left after he realized he wouldn't get what he wanted and then, well, he died."

Tom started pacing in an effort to release the angry energy building inside him. "How could you not tell anyone? How could you not tell _me_?"

"He died. What would it have accomplished, except perhaps trouble and shame for Mr. Napier? Mary wanted to put the whole thing behind her, and I didn't really have reason to disagree."

Tom stopped his pacing and leaned against a tree in frustration. He looked over at her with concern in his face. "Did he hurt you in any way?"

Sybil smiled sadly and shook her head. "But I should add, um . . ."

"Add what?" He asked, his brow furrowing again.

"He came into my room first. He came to Mary's because I wasn't there."

Sybil saw Tom clench his fists, and before she could stop him, he turned and rammed his left fist into the tree. He pulled his hand back in pain quickly, but he did not regret the release the pain offered. Dropping her book on the ground, Sybil ran over to him and took his now bloody hand into hers. She shot an annoyed glare at him and pulled him over to the creek.

"That was a stupid thing to do," she said, pulling him down to the water and gently wiping off the blood with the hem of her skirt.

They remained quiet for a moment while she saw to his cuts. Eventually, she said, "Aren't you the one always telling me how brave I am, how I can take care of myself?"

"Yes, but Sybil—"

"I _was_ brave. I _felt_ brave. I can hardly believe it now, but I—we, Mary and I—stood up to him. He didn't hurt us."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it," he said, finally cracking a smile.

Sybil smiled back. "I know it could have turned out very differently, but it didn't."

"I'm sorry about losing my temper, but I'm not sorry that I find it hard not to worry about you."

Sybil stood, pulling him up with her. "I do appreciate that, but you're the one who's a bit of a mess right now."

"I've been a mess since I met you."

Sybil looked down to hide her blush, and seeing his injured hand again, she bent down to kiss it.

"Thank you, Nurse Crawley," he said smiling widely now.

She sighed. "If only."

Quietly, Sybil went to pick up her discarded book and Tom walked over to where his shirt was hanging. Sybil turned away again so he could put it and his socks and shoes back on. A few minutes later, they emerged from the woods and stopped at the path that led her back to the house and him back to the village. They said their goodbyes and turned toward their respective destinations. Tom hadn't walked more than ten feet when he turned and called out to her.

"Sybil?"

She turned toward him.

"Why did you tell me?"

She smiled. "Because I tell you everything."

She waved and then started toward the house again.


	25. Sybil's Last Summer

 

**June 1913**

Since her sisters had started doing the season in London, Sybil couldn't remember a more enjoyable summer. The end of June was already approaching too quickly for her liking. She missed her family, but she secretly acknowledged to herself that if they chose to stay away another month she wouldn't be terribly disappointed. Sybil knew this would be the last summer of its kind for her. She would be eighteen in the fall and would soon come to face the pressures that she could already see weighing on Edith and Mary. But this June she remained relatively unencumbered and free from the trappings and expectations of her title and position. She wanted to cherish every moment.

With her parents and sisters gone, Sybil was the lone family member sleeping in the house. But with plenty of the staff having stayed behind with her and Violet and the Reginald Crawleys still in the village, solitude was actually rather rare. Separately and together, Violet and Isobel occasionally took her on their regular visits to the hospital, amusing Sybil with their constant bickering about how to run the facility over which they both presided. She and Tom continued to meet at their spot in the woods to talk about books and politics and whatever happened to be on their minds. On several especially hot days, they removed their shoes and waded in the creek together, and though they sometimes allowed themselves to hold hands while doing so—a need for better balance on the slippery rocks being the excuse—they never again got close to the state of undress Sybil had seen Tom in that May day she had caught him there alone.

Even Matthew had helped make the summer memorable by taking an afternoon to show Sybil how to ride a bicycle with a used woman's model he and Tom bought for her from a client at the partnership who sold them for a living. The bicycle allowed Sybil to go into the village more quickly and more often, as well as explore the roads surrounding the estate, without her having to bother Lynch or change into her riding clothes. As one would expect, Violet initially questioned the propriety of a lady on such an "odd device," but she came to look forward to Sybil's more frequent, often unannounced visits. Violet also enjoyed seeing the obvious delight this new freedom brought her free-spirited granddaughter—no matter how much a stickler for rules and tradition she herself remained. Now in what she knew to be the twilight of her life, Violet could not deny that she had begun, in spite of herself, to put feelings ahead of correctness when she did and said certain things.

But the memories of the summer of 1913 that Sybil, in her own late years, would look back on most fondly were those of her visits with Claire.

Knowing Saturdays to be the day Isobel spent volunteering at the hospital, leaving the Crawley House staff with some time to themselves, Sybil came by unannounced on the first Saturday in June to fulfill her promise to Tom's mother of another visit. By coincidence, Tom happened to be out of the house again when Sybil came. This time, although Claire was still surprised to see her, instead of eyeing the young woman warily, Claire welcomed Sybil into the house happily. As before, they sat down in the kitchen and talked over a cup of tea. When Tom came home, upon hearing Sybil's voice coming from the kitchen, instead of interrupting them, he retreated to the parlor to read. Having come to terms with the fact that he loved Sybil and hoped to marry her someday, admitting as much to his mother, Tom very much wanted Claire to love her too. Sybil, he figured, could make her own case to Claire better than he could.

In their conversations, Sybil and Claire talked about Tom, naturally, but they also talked about Claire's childhood on a tenant farm near Galway, about her life as a young working woman in Dublin before Tom was born, about his father, Colin, and about Claire's decision to cross the Irish sea when Colin's sudden death left her a young widow. They talked about what it was like for Sybil growing up in such a big house, about her American roots, about her interest in books and the suffrage movement and about her scheme to help Gwen find a job as a secretary. Claire remained unsure as to whether someone brought up in the aristocracy could adapt to the simple life Tom had always wanted, but she could easily see why her son was so taken with the sweet and thoughtful young woman. On the following Saturday, knowing Sybil would return, Tom found a reason to be away from the house to leave them to themselves once again.

As the end of the third week of June neared, Sybil had not only another Saturday with Claire to look forward to, but also Tom's birthday, which was on the Friday before. And if that wasn't enough, when Sybil sat down to breakfast on Thursday, Thomas handed her a letter that gave her even more for which to hope. Seeing the address on the envelope, Sybil took her knife to open it immediately. Its contents filled her with joy in a way few other things in her life at that moment had the power to do.

_Dear Lady Sybil Crawley,_

_We are grateful for your reference and recommendation concerning Miss Dawson, who is currently working in your service at Downton Abbey._

_Please will you convey to Miss Dawson that we would be happy to receive her for an interview at these premises on Friday, June 20th at 1 o'clock._

_I have the honor to remain your lady's obedient servant,_

_A. Jenkins_

Barely able to contain herself, Sybil ate as quickly as she could. Once finished, she grabbed the letter and went in search of Gwen, finding her in Sybil's own room, making up the bed.

"Gwen! I have news!" Sybil ran in, pushing the letter into Gwen's hands. Puzzled as to who would be writing Sybil that Gwen would even know, Gwen opened the letter and read it over. Her eyes blinked a few times in disbelief, and she read the contents again. And again. Someone wanted to interview her. Gwen's eyes widened and looked back to Sybil.

"I saw another opening for a secretary and I applied," Sybil said eagerly, answering Gwen's question before the young maid even had a chance to ask it.

"But you never said."

Indeed, the topic of Gwen's job search had gone undiscussed, at least between them, for some time.

"I didn't want you to be disappointed," Sybil replied.

"I thought you'd given up," Gwen said, smiling and realizing once again how faithful Sybil was to Gwen's cause.

"I'll never give up, and nor will you. Things are changing for women, Gwen. Not just the vote, but our lives."

"But it's tomorrow at one o'clock. Last time, we waited for weeks and weeks and—and this one's tomorrow."

Sybil grinned. "Then we must be ready by tomorrow, mustn't we?"

* * *

 

The following day, having arranged for Lynch to prepare the governess cart for her, Sybil met Gwen halfway down the road to the village just after luncheon. In making their plans the night before, Gwen told Sybil that she would have to fake an illness in order to get away for the day. Sybil had offered to talk with Mrs. Hughes, assuming that with most of the family gone and some of the staff gone with them, those who remained would have little to do. But Gwen wouldn't let her. Gwen remained, it seemed to Sybil, uncomfortable broaching the topic of her desire to leave service with her coworkers—her supervisor in particular.

"But I know Mrs. Hughes to be an understanding woman," Sybil had said. "Surely, she can see how important this is to you."

But Gwen was resolute. She didn't want the other staff to feel like she was getting special treatment, and she didn't dare ask for permission on her own and risk Mrs. Hughes saying no. Gwen was determined to attend the interview, and she prefered doing so by taking the chance of being discovered and having to answer for her actions after the fact, than by having to go against Mrs. Hughes's director orders after being told she couldn't go. If she was discovered under the former circumstances, she could plead her case more easily than if she were discovered under the latter, which would surely result in her sacking. Explained in those terms, Sybil understood her friend's predicament and agreed.

Seeing Gwen as the cart approached their designated meeting place, Sybil pulled on the reins to slow Dragon. Gwen smiled anxiously and climbed on.

"You look very smart!" Sybil said smiling brightly.

"Well, I had to let the skirt down a little, but I can put it back," Gwen responded, looking down at the borrowed suit.

"No, it's yours!" Sybil said.

With Gwen settled, Sybil clucked her tongue and the horse started them on their way.

"What will happen if one of the maids finds your room is empty?" Sybil asked.

"With Anna away with the family, I have the room to myself. The only risk would be if Mrs. Hughes comes to check on me. But I'd rather not think about that possibility until we're making our way back. One hurdle at a time."

Sybil smiled. "Are you feeling nervous?"

"A bit. I suppose it helps that I'm not entirely sure what I'm in for."

"I'm sure Tom prepared you the best he could, which means you will do splendidly."

"Certainly, I'll do better than if he hadn't helped."

"What advice did he give you?"

"To be as natural and confident as possible, to give myself time to think before I answer any question, not to ramble on too long with any one answer and to ask questions myself about the post and the pay and such things."

"I'm sure you will do just fine."

"I hope so, though I can't help wishing it had worked out for me a bit like it did for William."

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked.

"Well, when he came back to the house for the servants' ball, he said Mr. Branson and Mr. Crawley came to speak with him and his father when they were just taking over the running of the estate from his lordship, and then just like that they came back and offered him the job as estate agent that same morning. So he had an interview, even though he didn't realize that's what it was as it was happening."

Sybil laughed. "That does seem rather fortunate, but think of it this way, you are not merely waiting for the universe to offer up something. As a strong, independent woman, you're taking matters into your own hands."

Gwen laughed. "I believe, milady, that my fate being in own hands is precisely what scares me!"

The two rode in silence for a few minutes before Gwen ventured a question on a different topic to lighten the mood. "Is it really Mr. Branson's birthday today? I overheard Mrs. Patmore talking about the preparations for dinner in his honor this evening."

"It is his birthday. He'll be twenty-four. Granny asked that we have a special dinner at the house, but tomorrow he and I—" Sybil stopped short. Having momentarily forgotten that Gwen didn't know who Tom's mother was, Sybil was about to say, "He and I are taking his mother on a picnic."

Gwen smiled. "He and you will do what?"

Sybil was at a bit of a loss as to how to cover up her near-blunder. "He and I . . . that is, I'm not giving him his gift until tomorrow."

"And what have you chosen to give him, if I may ask?"

"Oh, just a book."

Gwen mistook Sybil's caginess for a desire to hide the fact that she had feelings for Tom, something that had been plainly obvious to Gwen for some time. She knew that Sybil would have been brought up to be demure and not speak of such things, but she also knew Sybil to be someone who did not like to keep her feelings about anything bottled up, having lamented to Gwen how doing so had affected her sisters when it came to the affection of the late Mr. Patrick Crawley. Gwen understood this situation to be different from that one because Sybil had no competition for Tom's attentions that Gwen could see, his affection for Sybil being just as plain to Gwen as Sybil's for him.

Still, given how generous Sybil had been with her, Gwen decided to offer herself as someone who would be there to listen.

"Lady Sybil?" Gwen began, looking ever forward, not wanting to embarrass Sybil or herself.

"Yes?"

"I, well . . . I want you to know that if you ever needed anyone to confide in regarding, um, well, your friendship with Mr. Branson. I don't pretend to know much about the matters of the heart, but . . . I'm here for you, is what I'm saying. If you need someone, that is."

Gwen ventured a peek over at Sybil, whose smiling face was a deep shade of red.

"Is it terribly obvious?" Sybil asked.

"That you like him? I wouldn't say so—at least not to people who may not know you so well as I do."

"You do know me, Gwen, so you have my permission to dispense with the word _like_. I do believe I left _like_ behind quite some time ago."

* * *

Much later that day, after Gwen had completed the interview, she and Sybil ran into horse trouble that delayed their return to the house considerably. News that was not taken especially well by Tom when Mrs. Hughes delivered it not too long before dinner was to be served.

"A dozen people in this house and it's not enough to look after one seventeen-year-old?"

Isobel and Matthew exchanged weary glances as Tom paced the floor of the library, where Thomas had escorted him, Isobel, Matthew and Violet upon their arrival for dinner so Mrs. Hughes could alert them to the fact that Lady Sybil had not returned from an errand since leaving on the governess cart early that afternoon.

"Oh, Tom, sit down for heaven's sake," Violet said. "You're making us all dizzy."

He sighed and took a seat next to Violet on the sofa. "I'm worried, that's all. It's not like her to be gone this late without telling anyone."

"I am sorry for not realizing until so late an hour that she was unaccounted for," Mrs. Hughes said. "But Mr. Lynch said he was confident about her abilities with the horse, so he did not see the need to alert me as to her departure when I asked him if he knew of her whereabouts after she did not ring for tea."

"I apologize for my outburst, Mrs. Hughes," Tom said contritely. "I know it isn't your fault."

"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Hughes, I've no doubt this is a folly of Lady Sybil's own making," Violet said. "And decades hence, when Tom's daughter is of the age my granddaughter is now, he'll have full knowledge of the fact that an entire army regiment does not suffice to keep a girl of her spirit in line."

Tom smiled. "You don't give parenthood a positive endorsement."

"I won't deny that it is trying—and tiring. The on and onness of it."

"Were you a very involved mother with Robert and Rosamund?" Isobel asked, a tone of surprise in her voice.

"Does it surprise you?" Violet asked pursing her lips.

"A bit," Isobel admitted. "I'd imagined them surrounded by nannies and governesses, being starched and ironed to spend one hour with you after tea."

Tom couldn't help but smile, feeling Violet tense next to him, and imagining that what Isobel had just described was precisely what Violet considered thorough parental involvement.

"Yes," Violet said, eventually. "But it was an hour every day."

Isobel's eyes widened. "I see, yes. How—"

But before Isobel could say anything else, Matthew cut in. "Please, mother, haven't you two had enough bickering for today, between cornering Dr. Clarkson and diagnosing poor old Moseley?" Matthew asked, unable to hide his smirk.

"There was no bickering over Moseley," Violet said, as if affronted. "Isobel made a diagnosis of erysipelas and I corrected her."

"You made a lucky guess," Isobel said, narrowing her eyes. "And anyway, we won't know whether the rash on Moseley's hands really is a rue allergy as you believe until he's been away from the garden for at least a week."

"I'm happy to wait since I'll be as right then as I am now," was Violet's retort.

Matthew chuckled and rolled his eyes. Turning back to Mrs. Hughes, Matthew asked, "Does Lynch know anything about where Lady Sybil went?"

"He said she mentioned something about popping in on old Mrs. Steward."

"Well, if that's the case, it's Moulton she's gone to," Violet said. "Though why she'd bother going to visit that old bat is a mystery."

Tom stood again. "I don't blame you, Mrs. Hughes, truly, but Lynch should have known better than to let her take the cart and risk the traffic. With so many automobiles out and about now, the roads are a positive mess. The cart is probably stuck in the mud somewhere between here and there. I'll go get the motor and fetch her myself."

But the very moment he turned to go, Sybil entered, hat and hair askew and two inches of mud on her skirt. "I'm so very sorry to be late and to have worried everyone!"

As Tom's shoulders sank in relief at seeing her, Sybil smiled. Having heard the last of what he'd said, she very much wished that he—or anyone really—had somehow known to come to her and Gwen's rescue sooner.

"What happened, my dear?" Isobel asked.

Sybil gave her hat and coat to Mrs. Hughes, who couldn't help but smile and shake her head as she left the room. "Dragon cast a shoe and we couldn't find a blacksmith who could help. Then my temper got the better of me and I spooked him, and he ran away from us."

"Us?" Matthew asked.

Sybil looked around the room, and seeing that there were no servants present any longer, answered honestly and quietly. "I was taking Gwen to a job interview."

Violet stomped the floor with her cane. "See what mischief comes from this job nonsense."

"It was just bad luck, granny," Sybil said.

"In that case, I hope the disaster happened on the way back, rather than on the way there," Tom said.

"It was on the way back," Sybil replied. "At least on the score of delivering her to the interview, the errand was successful. I really am sorry. I'll go change now and be ready as quickly as I can."

Before going, though, she stepped up to Tom and meekly said, "I hope I haven't ruined your birthday."

He smiled. "On the contrary, if Gwen gets the job, I'll be happy to know it all began on this day."

Sybil made her excuses again and went upstairs to change.

"That child is incorrigible," Violet said with a sigh, as Tom sat back down next to her.

"Would you want her any other way?" Tom asked jokingly.

Violet looked at Tom from the side of her eyes. "I suppose you wouldn't."

Surprised at what she was suggesting and how openly she had done so, Tom turned to try to look Violet in the face, but only saw her usual pursed-lipped expression directed at no one in particular—as if she'd said nothing at all. After a moment, Violet did turn to face him but acted as if she were startled to catch him looking at her.

"What is it?" She asked airily.

Tom smiled to himself, turning back to the room. "Nothing."

* * *

While Sybil had been explaining the mishap to her family, Gwen was sneaking back into her room. Once inside, confident she had not been detected coming in, she sank into her bed without bothering to remove her hat or shoes. After a moment's rest, she sat back up to take off her boots, when she heard her door open.

It was Mrs. Hughes, and by the look of it, she was not at all surprised not to see Gwen laid up in bed, as sick as she had claimed to be that morning. Gwen stood and took off her hat, not sure whether there was anything she could say at having been caught red-handed.

Mrs. Hughes raised her eyebrows, as if amused. She didn't know where Gwen had been but her suspicions that she'd gone with Sybil seemed to have been proven true.

"You look done in," Mrs. Hughes said finally. "I'll bring you some food up later when we've finished dinner. Where were you?"

"You came up, then?" Gwen asked, tentatively.

" 'Course I did. When I realized Lady Sybil was missing, I knew there would be only one person in the house who might know where she'd gone. But then I came to look for you and _you_ were gone. So I could only guess that you were with her."

"I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Hughes."

"I don't suppose this had anything to do with Lady Sybil's efforts to make you a secretary?"

Gwen looked down and nodded, tears about to slip from her eyes, fearing the worst. But Mrs. Hughes' next question was not what Gwen was expecting.

"Did you get the job?"

Gwen's head jerked up and intense relief flooded through her as she saw Mrs. Hughes smile with forgiveness.

"Well, we'll have to wait and see."

Mrs. Hughes stepped closer to Gwen and motioned for her to sit on the bed. Mrs. Hughes pulled the chair from the nearby desk and sat down in front of Gwen.

"Gwen, I think what you are doing is to be admired. I know you are afraid to discuss it for fear of the judgment it might bring on you for aspiring higher than your current station, but I have no objection to that. I do, however, have an objection to lying and to taking advantage. Lady Sybil is a sweet, kind person and I don't doubt that she cares for your very much, but you remain an employee of her parents, and while that is the case, you need to take care that your friendship with her does not interfere with your duties. There are rules to this kind of life and while you remain here with us you must abide them. Lady Sybil, I believe, understands what those rules are, but even so, the burden of walking the line and the consequences of not doing so fall to you alone. That is our lot. Am I being understood?"

Gwen nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

"Now, if you aren't given the position you sought today, I can only imagine there will be others. I hope that from now on, you feel comfortable coming to me about taking time to see to interviews and the like."

"I will Mrs. Hughes, and I'll work twice as hard tomorrow to make up for my absence today, I promise."

"Nevermind that," Mrs. Hughes said standing up. "Get yourself cleaned up and I'll bring you a tray in later."

"I can come down and get it for myself, Mrs. Hughes, it's no bother."

"Oh, no. Far as everyone else downstairs is concerned you are ill today. I'm the only one who knows of your mischief, and I'll not have you give the game away now and let the other girls think they can get away with such things too."

Gwen smiled sheepishly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I don't know what we would all do without you."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "You'd get along fine, I suppose."

* * *

Despite Sybil's tardiness, Tom's birthday dinner at Downton Abbey was a lively and entertaining affair that went late into the night. But the late hour at which she went to bed, did not stop Sybil from waking up early the following morning, anxious for the more private celebration she would be participating in today. Just after one of the maids had come in to open the curtains, Sybil was up and dressing herself. After breakfast, she told Mrs. Hughes she would be at Crawley House for luncheon and proceeded to spend the morning in the library writing in her journal. She went back up to her room just before it was time to leave to finish getting ready when Gwen stepped in with a long look on her face.

Sybil wondered momentarily if the physical exertion of the afternoon before had made her work more difficult this morning.

"Have you not recovered from our ordeal?" Sybil asked with concern.

Gwen shrugged. "I'm all right as far as that goes, I suppose."

"Is it something else, then? You look rather upset."

Gwen sighed. "Well, I got a letter this morning. They must've written it as soon as I left the office. They are pleased to have met me, but I do not quite fit their requirements. So, it was all for nothing."

Sybil stood from where she had been sitting in her vanity and quickly walked over to Gwen. "I don't agree. You can't give up now, Gwen. It was only one interview—your first. There will be others."

"Only a fool doesn't know when they've been beaten."

"Then I'm a fool for I'm a long way from being beaten yet."

Gwen let out a humorless laugh, but Sybil persisted.

"This isn't the end. You mustn't give up. We'll get there."

Gwen rolled her eyes and stepped away from Sybil. "Forgive me, my lady, but you don't get it. You're brought up to think it's all within your grasp, that if you want something enough it will come to you. Well, we're not like that. We don't think our dreams are bound to come true, because . . . because they almost never do."

Sybil walked around Gwen to look her in the eye again. "Then that's why we must stick together. Your dream is my dream now, and I'll make it come true."

"I appreciate all you've done milady, I do, but perhaps it's best if I gave up now. You're nice to encourage me, but I'm not sure I have the heart for the rejections I'm sure to face."

"But Gwen, don't you see, a hundred rejections won't make the offer of a job any less real when it happens."

"I certainly couldn't take being rejected one hundred times," Gwen said with a sad smile.

Sybil pulled her over to the bed and they sat on the edge. "May I ask you what made you want to be a secretary? Do you absolutely hate being a maid?"

Gwen laughed. "No, I don't. I think what I liked about training to be a secretary was the idea that I could help someone, like a solicitor or a salesman, and learn about new things. Maid's work is fine. Not easy on the hands sometimes, but it's not . . . very _interesting_. Not to me anyway. Anna rather likes doing hair and helping Lady Mary pick out clothes that will suit her, and she's good at it. I am able to help you because you pay less attention to such things, but if I were to care for Lady Mary, I do believe she'd think I was rubbish."

Sybil smiled. "I admit she and Anna are very well suited to one another in that regard. But I do think women should be allowed to choose professions that suit them."

"Do you see, though, that the choice is not always with _us_?" Gwen asked carefully, not wanting to insult Sybil, but nevertheless needing her to understand that being a maid might be all that was available to Gwen.

Sybil sighed. "I do, and if I could give you some of my advantages, so that perhaps we could met in the middle, I'd like nothing more. But, Gwen, the world _is_ changing. That cannot be denied. Perhaps not now, but in some not so distant future, the demand for secretaries will be such that you will have the opportunity we both so dearly want for you. I'm not asking that you keep fighting right now if you must take a break, only that you don't give up hope entirely—at least not while you're still so young."

Gwen smirked. "How can you act the sage when you're younger than I am?"

Sybil laughed. "I am wise beyond my years."

Gwen stood and smoothed out her skirt. "I should get back to my duties, and you have an outing to get to."

"I won't leave until I'm sure you're feeling better," Sybil said firmly.

"I am. Thank you."

Sybil stood, smiling reflectively and she watcher her friend go. She couldn't let Gwen lose hope. She desperately wanted her friend to be happy, but Sybil also wanted to believe that the change she wanted to see in the world truly was possible.

* * *

Tom and Claire met Sybil at a small, quiet park just outside the village, just off the road that led to Ripon. Claire packed a veritable feast with all of Tom's favorite foods, including apple barley pudding, which Sybil had never tasted before but loved immediately. They also talked about world affairs, including the possibility of Irish Home Rule and the bill to that effect that Parliament had rejected earlier that year.

Claire shared the story of how Tom was born in the back pew of St. Thomas's Church on Marlborough Street in Dublin, Claire stubbornly refusing to leave after suddenly realizing that he was coming in the middle of early Sunday mass—which Colin had insisted they attend despite her complaints of what she had believed then to be only back pain. "I'd wanted to name him Aedan after my da, but Colin's view was God had given us his name, and we had no choice," she recounted, making Sybil laugh and Tom blush.

Tom had brought along a kite, which he and Sybil tried for a good while to heave into the air, occasionally falling into squabbles, to Claire's amusement, about the best way to do so in such meager winds. Finally, they gave up, sat back down on their blanket and took turns reading aloud from Maria Edgewordth's novel, Castle Rackrent, with Claire interrupting here and there with commentary on how well (or not so well) the writer had captured life in Irish tenancy.

It was almost tea time when Sybil reluctantly said her goodbyes, not wanting to worry Mrs. Hughes about her whereabouts for the second day running. As she rode her bicycle back to the house, Sybil felt her hat shift on her head from the wind. Without stopping, she carefully let go one hand from the handlebars and pulled it off her head. Having noticed that the bicycle remained balanced, Sybil smiled and, feeling daring and adventurous, took the other hand off.

Pedaling faster and faster, her arms spread out like a bird's wings and the wind blowing against her face, Sybil looked up to the sky and wondered if the God she only occasionally looked to would ever in her life give her another moment in which she felt so loved, so happy and so free.


	26. The Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I've taken some of the action that happens in series one, episode seven, which takes place in July 1914, and moved it up to 1913 in an effort to spread things out and even out the pacing of the story. The rest of what happens in that episode—such as the fallout of the count in May, Cora's surprise pregnancy, Matthew's proposal, and Strallan and Edith—will happen on the show's original timeline.

 

**July 1913**

"Are you really going to have a telephone at Crawley House?" Sybil asked Matthew excitedly.

"It's being installed this week," responded Matthew, who was sitting at the desk in the library. "They're in regular use now at the partnership, and they've asked that all the solicitors put them in at home as well."

"How marvelous!" Sybil said from her spot in the armchair next to the window. Her embroidery was at her feet, long forgotten.

The two of them, along with Tom, who was browsing the section on history near where Sybil was sitting, had been chatting for the last half-hour as they waited for the family to arrive home from the train station.

"Do you think papa will ever have one here?" Sybil asked after a moment's reflection.

"I'm going to suggest it to him this afternoon," Matthew said.

"Any thought as to whether he'll be open to it?" Tom asked Sybil.

"I'm not sure," she said. "He accepted putting lights in the house with some reluctance. I don't know whether he'd like the idea of just anyone calling whenever they like."

"I can only imagine Cousin Violet's opinion on the matter," Tom said with an impish grin on his face.

"I'd give anything to be in her presence when she hears it ring for the first time," Sybil said. "Or to see her trying to use it at all."

Tom laughed.

"Poor granny," Sybil said. "She dreads modernity so dreadfully. I, on the other hand, find the idea of hearing the voice of someone who is far away rather magical."

"Have you seen one in use before?" Matthew asked.

"Just once in the post office. Mr. Thornton was using it as I walked in, and once he was finished, he showed me how it worked."

"There's a message from the train station, sir," Carson said, stepping into the room addressing Matthew.

"Is there a problem?" Matthew asked.

"The 10 o'clock train apparently is running late this morning and it will be another quarter of an hour before its arrival at the station," the butler responded.

"Thank you for the update," Matthew said.

"Shall I have Alfred bring in tea?" Carson asked.

Matthew looked over to Tom, who shrugged noncommittally, and Sybil, who said, "Yes, for me." Matthew turned back to Carson. "For all of us, Carson, thank you."

"Very good, sir."

After he had gone, Sybil leaned over her chair toward Tom. "And what do you think Carson would do with a telephone in the house?" she asked playfully.

Tom smiled. "I don't know, but I can only assume he would do it with the utmost dignity."

Sybil laughed and picked up her embroidery again.

* * *

A short while later, in another part of the house, Mrs. Hughes was walking through the family's rooms to make sure they had been done up properly for their return.

She saw Gwen coming out of Edith's room and, peeking inside, saw that another maid was still in the room polishing the biscuit jar.

"Hurry up, girls, come on," she called out with a stern expression on her face. "You should be done here. They'll be back from the station any second now."

Mrs. Hughes stepped in once the room was empty, and seeing everything in its place, she headed back downstairs satisfied that the house was finally ready. At the bottom of the stairs into the servants hall, she met Carson, who was crossing the hall toward the butler's pantry, having just come from the kitchen.

"There was a bit of a delay with the train," he said. "Mrs. Patmore is making up tea for Lady Sybil and the young gentlemen in the library."

"Well, the girls finished upstairs, so it's just a matter of the family getting in now," Mrs. Hughes said. "With all the preparations this morning, I haven't had a chance to ask, how was London?"

"Oh, much as usual. Dirty, noisy, quite enjoyable."

"There was no need for you to come back a day early. I'm perfectly capable of getting the house ready."

"Of course you are," he answered with a smile, "but I like to have the heavy luggage back and unpacked before they get here."

"I suppose . . . " she said, narrowing her eyes, but smiling too.

Carson was moving to head to his office again, when Alfred came through with the tea tray and almost ran into him.

"Steady, Alfred!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. "This isn't a race."

"Be at the door ready to unload the luggage after you've served," Carson called out to Alfred as he walked up the stairs.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Alfred responded.

Carson sighed, looking back to Mrs. Hughes, who was shaking her head. He then turned toward the pantry again.

"How do you find Mrs. Patmore, now you're back?" Mrs. Hughes asked following him into the small room.

"Mrs. Patmore is very cruel to that poor girl," Carson said, sitting down. "If what I've seen today is any indication. Daisy had a long June."

"Mrs. Patmore is frightened."

Carson motioned for Mrs. Hughes to sit in the chair opposite him on the other side of the desk. "Is she right to be?"

"Well, Dr. Clarkson confirmed she has cataracts," Mrs. Hughes answered. "He sent a letter to London informing his lordship of the situation."

"What can be done about it?"

"There are treatments, but even the best are uncertain," Mrs. Hughes said. "She doesn't want to risk losing what sight she still has."

"I don't blame her, but it can't go on forever," Carson said.

"I don't know that it can go on a week, if I'm perfectly honest."

Carson's eyes widened. "Have things worsened to such a degree?"

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "I hate to spoil the family's homecoming, but she's worse than when you left. Much worse."

"What are you going to say to her ladyship?"

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "I'm not sure. I don't want the poor woman sacked, but things cannot go on as they are."

Carson stood again. "Well, you have my support in whatever you recommend. Best get upstairs now to receive the motor."

Mrs. Hughes moved to stand as well and turned to the doorway, seeing Gwen step through.

"They're here, Mrs. Hughes."

* * *

Upstairs, almost as soon as Alfred had set down the tray, Sybil saw the motor through the library window. "There they are!"

She, Tom and Matthew, behind Alfred, came to the door and stepped outside just as the family was climbing out of the motor. Sybil, happy to have them all home, quickly stepped forward to welcome them back.

"What a relief to be home," Robert said, hugging Sybil, then moving to shake Matthew and Tom's hands.

"Don't listen when Robert pretends not to enjoy the season," Cora said, greeting Tom and Matthew.

"When in Rome," Robert quipped.

"So good to see you both," Cora continued. "I hope you took good care of Sybil while we were away."

"Very good," Sybil said, after having greeted her sisters. "I dare say it was the best summer of my life."

"Just wait until next year, my darling," Cora said.

"Just wait and you'll have confirmation, that it'll never be as good as you've had it again," Mary said with a droll expression on her face.

Cora rolled her eyes. "Really, Mary. We had a perfectly nice time."

Mary looked back at Sybil and rolled her own eyes, causing Sybil to giggle.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Edith?" Sybil asked as the family stepped through the front door into the entrance hall.

"As much as one can when people to whom you've been introduced four summers in a row still don't remember who you are," Edith said with a sigh.

"Oh, it wasn't as bad as all that," Cora said. "The way you two are going on, you'll have poor Sybil dreading her season next year."

"You obviously don't know Sybil if you think she's not dreading it already," Edith said, earning a snicker from Sybil herself.

"Alfred had just served tea for us in the library, when we saw you coming," Matthew spoke up, addressing Robert. "I imagine you'd like some refreshment after your travels."

"Yes, I do believe I'll join you," Robert said. "Cora?"

Before Cora could answer, though, Mrs. Hughes spoke up. "Actually, your ladyship, I was wondering if I may have a word."

"I'm going up to help Anna unpack," Mary said. "I'll be down later."

Robert, Edith, Tom, Matthew and Sybil proceeded to the library for their tea, leaving Cora and Mrs. Hughes alone at the landing.

"So Grantham House is closed?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"It will be by the end of this week," Cora answered. "Dear Mrs. Hughes, I hope you've had some time to yourself while we've been away."

Mrs. Hughes gave a small smile. "I've tackled a few jobs that get forgotten about when the house is full."

"Have you had any thoughts about the garden party for the hospital?"

"I've started on it, but . . . well, that's what we need to talk about."

"Oh, dear. That sounds like trouble. I'll take my hat off."

"I'll come up to your room in a few minutes."

"I can come to the kitchen," Cora said. "I won't be that long and really I'm not that tired."

Mrs. Hughes hesitated. "Actually, your ladyship, I'd prefer that we talk away from the kitchen."

Cora's shoulders sank, finally understanding what the topic would be. "I see. Well, I'll only need a few minutes."

* * *

Having waited to give Cora time to settle in, about twenty minutes after the family's arrival, Mrs. Hughes knocked softly on Cora's door. O'Brien opened it with her usual serious expression, and Mrs. Hughes stepped through.

"Do you need anything else, milady?" O'Brien asked.

"No, thank you, O'Brien. Just close the door on your way out please."

O'Brien did so and Mrs. Hughes walked into the room to where Cora was sitting at her writing desk.

"I apologize for the cloak and dagger, your ladyship, but as you've probably guessed, it's Mrs. Patmore. The time has come when we really have to make a decision."

"Poor dear, is she terribly upset?"

"Dr. Clarkson has offered some hope of it being corrected, as I believe he mentioned in the letter he was to have written to his lordship, but you can imagine her reluctance."

"Well, we'll look to her interests if the problem cannot be fixed, so she need not be concerned about that—and I certainly don't want you worrying on her behalf either. The truth is, Mrs. Hughes, his lordship did look to the matter while we were in London, and there is a surgeon we will send her to as soon as we can arrange for a cook while she's gone. My thought was that we would wait until after the garden party, but if things are as bad as you say they are . . ."

"I do believe the sooner, the better."

"I'll have Lord Grantham see to the details. You can let Mrs. Patmore know."

"If you don't mind, milady, I'll leave the telling to his lordship. I don't believe she'll believe it coming from me."

Cora smiled. "Very well."

* * *

After some tea and catching up on the news of the day with Robert, Tom excused himself and headed back to Crawley House, where he had promised Isobel he'd look over some legal paperwork for the hospital that Dr. Clarkson had passed on to her for him and Matthew to review. Sybil walked with him to the door and then headed upstairs to see Mary.

She knocked lightly on the door and, hearing Mary on the other side, opened it and stepped in.

"Let me guess, now that Tom has gone, I'll do for company?" Mary said arching an eyebrow.

Sybil gasped in indignation, but before she could protest—even though Mary had pretty much gotten it right—Mary started to laugh. Sybil laughed as well, her cheeks blushing ever so slightly.

"I can see him walking back to the village from here," Mary said pointing out the window she'd been looking out of when Sybil had come in.

Sybil came over to stand next to her and smiled.

"I can only assume you spent a great deal of time together if your summer was as good as you say," Mary said, smiling.

"You assume correctly, but there was more to it than that. I spent a lot of time with everyone—even granny."

Mary snickered. "I'm sure she was delightful company."

"She _was_ , actually, when she was at home by herself and I caught her at the right moment."

"Did you go see her often?"

"I did. Matthew taught me how to ride a bicycle, and he and Tom bought an old model for me, so I was able to get to the village more easily. You should try it."

Mary scrunched up her face in distaste. "It looks terribly uncomfortable. I'll stick to horses and walking."

Sybil smiled, then bit her lip, wondering whether Mary would care very much about hearing what she said next. After a moment, she went on. "Matthew asked about you."

Mary looked at her hands, trying to keep her reaction nonchalant. "Did he?"

"He wondered if you'd written to say whether you were enjoying yourself, and he said he hoped you were."

"And what did you say to that?"

"That you don't like to write," Sybil said with a smile. "I believe he missed you."

"We don't speak that often. What would there be to miss?"

"Your irrepressible optimism, _obviously_ ," Sybil said sardonically, making Mary laugh. Sybil's voice softened as she added, "He cares for you, Mary, more than you are willing to admit or let yourself hope."

Mary looked away, clearly eager to change the subject. "Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time. I do wish I could have been here with you."

"Was it really so terrible in London?" Sybil asked, a bit concerned.

Mary looked down. "Not terrible. Just . . ."

"Not what you hoped for?"

"I don't really hope for anything any more. I think there lies the problem." Mary pushed away from the window and went over to her bed to sit down. "I sound terribly depressed, but I'm not. My having turned away Mr. Napier has apparently made me a bit of an odd duck among the ladies in town, but I truly am not anxious to get married right away. I used to be, but I think that was because people in society kept telling me that I was so beautiful and so connected, I was destined to marry a duke and live in the biggest house in the county. Now I know the emperor has no clothes."

"Is the emperor you or the people in society?" Sybil asked with a furrowed brow.

Mary smiled. "A bit of both. The point is if a duke or anyone wanted to come court me, I wouldn't turn him away. I'd still very much like to marry well and have a proper house, since it can't be Downton. I'm just not so keen on it happening very soon to mama's great dismay. And I'm done being the one expected to make an effort. That's all the season is about—girls making an effort. It's just not for me anymore."

Sybil smiled. "There will be no getting out of going next year, I'm afraid, but perhaps we can skip the races and go to rallies and meet Sylvia Pankhurst."

"Things aren't quite _that_ dire."

Sybil giggled, knowing her sister would never be so progressive as to actively campaign for the women's cause, but happy that having seen through at least some of the artifice of aristocratic ritual, Mary had still found a comfortable peace.

"Speaking of Pankhurst, though," Mary said, standing, "I have something for you from Imogen. She brought it over to the house a few days ago."

Mary walked over to her vanity where Sybil now noticed a small parcel was resting. Mary picked it up and handed it to Sybil who brought it over to the bed to open it.

"It's the suffragettes' colors!" Sybil exclaimed, pulling out a sash with the words "VOTES FOR WOMEN" imprinted on purple, green and white silk. There was a note card attached, and Sybil smiled at all the words that Imogen had managed, though somewhat messily, to fit onto it, front and back.

_Dearest Sybil,_

_Aren't white, purple and green just a suitably and wonderfully bold combination? I know purple in particular looks marvelous on you. I don't intend to make trouble with Lord Grantham, but I thought you would be very pleased to have an emblem of the cause for your very own._

_Papa was quite furious when I brought them into the house, but I told him straight away that they were a gift from Lady Susan Darlington. Can you believe the queen of Belgrave Square is one of us! Mama was absolutely shocked, but after Lady Susan invited us to tea, mama did not complain. Lady S. does not approve of the Misses Pankhurst's more violent tactics, but she devilishly admitted to herself having thrown rotten eggs at the prime minister! You should have seen mama's face. I almost spilled my tea! Mama wondered what would be of interest to L.S. in politics, but L.S. says in all her years she's never met a gentleman of old stock or otherwise who was quite so intelligent as she, and given her position in society she's bound to have met a great deal of them._

_I miss you dearly and am counting the days until we can meet again near August, when we'll be going back to visit Yorkshire again. I wish we could stay at Downton, but Lady Merton made the invitation this time. Please give Tom my best._

_Ever your faithful friend, I.S.W._

After reading it, Sybil tucked the note into her pocket, then lifted the sash over her head and adjusted it so its message was visible across her chest, from her right shoulder to her waist. She walked over to Mary's full length mirror and grinned at the sight of herself. Turning back to Mary, she asked, "What do you think?"

"On anyone else, I'd say dreadful, but on you, it's rather perfect."

* * *

 

By the time Cora came down to the library, it was almost time for luncheon. Edith had gone upstairs, and Robert and Matthew, the two who remained, were discussing the installation of a telephone, Robert having been convinced of its necessity more easily than Matthew had expected.

Both men stood as Cora came in.

"You look very well Cousin Cora," Matthew said. "London seems to have agreed with you."

"The city can be a bit much to handle sometimes compared with the ease of country life, but Grantham House is very comfortable. We hope to welcome you there next year when Sybil is presented."

Matthew smiled in response.

"Matthew wants a telephone put in here and in Carson's rooms downstairs," Robert said.

"Do we need one?" Cora asked.

"It'll make life a bit easier for the hallboys who have to go back and forth between here and Crawley House with messages. And, of course, news from London will come more quickly."

"It does sound reasonably convenient," Cora said, "though I can't help but fear that only bad news needs to travel at that speed. Are you having one put in yourselves?"

"We are. Mr. Bromidge is to be in tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I'll tell him to see to you next. It may be a few days, though. Apparently, it's a booming business."

"I can only imagine," Robert said. After a moment, he turned to Cora and asked, "What did Mrs. Hughes want?" Robert asked.

"Mrs. Patmore is even worse than we feared. She recommends resolving the situation as soon as possible."

"Is something wrong?" Matthew asked.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten that dreadful pudding she made when the Wilkes were here," Robert said.

"How could anyone," Matthew replied with a laugh. "I didn't realize it was a sign of difficulties she was having."

"It's cataracts," Cora said. "She can regain the sight she has lost with surgery."

Robert continued, "We found a place in London that will accommodate her and do the job properly. She'll be out of commission for a few days though."

"It's kind of you to see to her," Matthew said.

Tom might have seen the next question coming.

Matthew did not.

"Say, what is the name of your cook?" Robert asked. "We'll need someone here with Mrs. Patmore gone, if it's not too much trouble for you to have your meals with us for a few days."

"You and Tom are here so often anyway," Cora said, smiling warmly. "And you know how we enjoy your company."

Matthew's heart dropped into his stomach, and with an unsteady hand, he set the teacup that he had still been holding down on the table in front of him.

"Our cook, um . . . I'll have to check with mother. She may have other plans."

"Other plans?" Cora asked with a confused expression on her face.

Matthew stood, "You know I think I'll go ask her now."

"I thought you would stay for luncheon," Robert said.

"No, no, I, um—I have some things to see to in the village," Matthew said, moving to take his leave. "It's lovely to have you all back again," he said before turning to go, without letting Robert and Cora get another word in. If either of them thought his behavior odd, neither mentioned it out loud.

Matthew walked quickly through the hallway past the stairs, so he didn't see Mary coming down just then until she called out to him.

"Are you leaving already?"

He turned and took in a quick breath at the sight of her. She didn't look much different from when she left, but standing at the landing of the staircase with the light shining through the windows above her, she looked a bit like the portraits of queens that hang in museums. He could see in that moment, how much she belonged in this house and how much the house belonged to her.

He took a step toward her and Mary did the same, coming down the rest of the way off the staircase.

"Sybil's been telling me about your adventures," Mary said. "Knowing her stubbornness as I do I must say you've earned a medal for patience if you taught her how to do something like ride a bicycle."

Matthew smiled bashfully. "Too much eagerness does not always make for a good pupil, but in Sybil's case it worked out. She picked it up quite easily. I imagine you have no such interests."

"You imagine right."

"I hope your time in London was everything that you wished."

Mary laughed. "Nothing is ever everything I wish. But a person with expectations as I have been taught to have must learn to make do."

Mary looked at Matthew expectantly, waiting for him to laugh at her snobbery, which she had exaggerated on purpose for his amusement. Instead, though, Matthew's face got serious. He knew she had been joking, but it occurred to him that in his and Isobel's concern for how Violet, Robert and Cora would treat Tom once his parentage had been made known, he'd never thought about how Mary would react. He had never thought, in fact, how it would change their treatment of _him_.

His change in demeanor did not go unnoticed.

"Is something wrong?" Mary asked.

"I'm sorry to cut you off," he said looking down, "but I must be going."

Mary offered a small smile. "All right, then. Will we see you for dinner?"

"I think so," he said. He smiled again, trying to rein in his concerns. "I'm glad you're back," he said quietly.

"I'm happy to be back." Then she watched him turn and go.

* * *

The house was quiet when Matthew entered. Moseley met him in the entryway and took his coat and hat.

"Is Mrs. Crawley still at the hospital, Moseley?" Matthew asked him.

"No, she returned just a short while ago, I believe she went upstairs to her room. Mr. Branson is in the parlor."

"Thank you."

Moseley was about to step away, when Matthew called him back. "Moseley, can you ask Mrs. Branson to come up to the parlor?"

"Certainly, sir, although she and Ivy are working on luncheon, so it might be difficult to get her to step away from the kitchen at the moment," Moseley said with a slight smile.

"Of course. But it is a rather important matter, so if not right away, when she has a minute."

"Very good, sir."

Matthew went up the stairs and straight to his mother's room, knocking lightly at the door.

Isobel opened it with a smile. "You're back! I was just on my way downstairs." She noticed the concern in his expression. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong per se, just . . . well, come down. This is a matter to be discussed _en famille_."

Isobel and Matthew descended the stairs and saw Claire coming into the parlor just ahead of them. Tom stood from his chair by the fireplace.

"Mr. Moseley said you wanted to see me, sir," Claire said.

"What's this about, Matthew?" Isobel asked.

Matthew took a deep breath. "Do you all remember the mishap with the pudding a few months ago?"

"When Mrs. Patmore salted it by mistake?" Tom asked.

Matthew nodded. "It turns out she is having problems with her vision, and it's apparently gotten so bad that Robert and Cora plan to send her to a surgeon in London."

"That's nice of them," Isobel said.

"What are they going to do in the interim?" Tom asked. Matthew turned to answer him and he could see by the look in Tom's eyes that he knew what their intended solution was.

"Well . . . they'd like ours to fill in." Matthew waited for a moment for his words to sink in. Isobel sat down on the sofa and looked to Claire, who was rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

The world the two women had carefully erected for their sons was not based on a lie, but rather on the elevation of equality and fairness and hard work above judgment and prejudice—a value system that the outside was not yet ready to embrace as fully as Reginald Crawley had taught them all to do. But to continue to live in that world now would mean deliberate deception. Or it would mean coming clean. And their sons having been raised rightly, both mothers in that room knew that would be the path Tom and Matthew would choose.

"I'll tell Robert tonight," Tom said quietly.

"Do you really have to, though?" Claire asked. "Could we make up some excuse? And who's to say if I went they would figure it out? I use Connelly when I'm in the village. No one's the wiser."

"That's because they don't know you. The Crawleys know us. I don't see a way around it," Tom said. "And I won't have you making my dinner and then pretend you're nothing to me."

"But it's a big house, not like here," Claire insisted. "I won't even see you."

"That's not the point."

"I believe Tom is right," Matthew said. "To have an Irish cook and an Irish adopted son. It's too much of a coincidence. The staff will gossip. It's better to bring the truth to the family from the start. And besides, we may be worrying over nothing. Who's to say they will react at all."

Isobel snorted. "You will have me believe that the Her Ladyship the Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley is not going to turn her nose up at _all_ of us? She who wouldn't shake hands with me when we met because a middle class woman dared to address her as an equal?"

Matthew's sighed in annoyance. "Mother, this is not the time for your self-righteousness."

Isobel ignored Matthew and stepped up to Tom. "My dear boy, please don't mistake me. I am more proud of you than you could imagine, but it would be grossly naive to think they will not react negatively to this. I say this not out of concern for their feelings but for yours and for your future. We don't have to tell them anything."

Tom sighed. "My future is my own. This isn't going to affect it, but neither am I ashamed of my past. I kept things quiet up until this point because they hadn't asked the question, but they've as good as now and I won't lie. Not about who I am."

"Tom, please—" Claire cut in.

"And are you so ashamed of me claiming you?" He asked her, challenge in his voice.

Claire rolled her eyes and let out an angry breath. "Must you be so high and mighty all the time? Maybe _I_ don't want to be exposed to the absurdities that are sure to come my way from their ridiculous army of servants. None are so judgmental as those below stairs in houses like that."

"I'm sorry, mam," Tom said. "If you don't want to fill in for Mrs. Patmore you don't have to, but I am going to tell them either way."

"She'll not be abused, not if I'm there with her."

The family turned to see Moseley at the threshold.

"I apologize if I'm intruding on what is clearly a family matter, but if Mrs. Branson is to go cook at Downton Abbey, Ivy and I will have to take our meals there as well. So long as I am present none will speak ill of her or anyone at Crawley House."

Matthew smiled. "That's very gallant of you, Moseley, and most appreciated."

"I will support you, as well, Mrs. Branson, whatever you decide to do," Isobel said.

"Well, if he insists," Claire said nodding her head toward Tom, "there's no point in turning them down—but I do wonder whether they'd even want me there once they have full knowledge of everything."

"It's a good question and will need answering," Isobel said. Turning to Tom she added, "All this said, Tom, I still don't think it's any of their business. Don't feel you have to reveal anything out of obligation."

"At this point, I think I need for them to know."

"What could you mean?" Isobel asked.

"The Crawleys—Robert, Violet, all of them—they've welcomed me into their lives, dined with me, come to treat me quite like family," Tom said quietly. "I do believe they love me as one of theirs. If I tell them and they turn me away now, they will only have done so because I am the son of an Irish mill worker and a servant, and as such unworthy of their company. Not for any other reason. I need to know that's not who they really are because if it is then I never want to step into that house again."

Without another word, Tom walked out of the room and out the door of the house.

Matthew moved as if to follow, but felt Claire's hand on his arm. "Let me."

She followed her son out into the yard, where she saw him pacing on the front walk. Hearing her approach, he looked up and she could see a cloud of tears in his eyes. She sighed and pulled him into a hug. After a few minutes, she pulled away and cupped his face with her hands. "You are such a good man, but you are too hard on this world. I will tell you right now, they will not be as perfect as you want them to be. Nobody in this life is. Prepare yourself for that fact and for tears and anger and all of what may come from this. But don't push them away either, not if they mean so much to you."

Tom wiped an errant tear from his cheek with the back of his hand and laughed at himself. "What kind of a socialist cares this much about a family of bloody aristocrats. I should go burn the house down as penance for having helped preserve it in the first place."

"Stop with your nonsense," Claire said. "And never apologize for your heart. Not even to yourself. Besides, _she_ already knows and she's the one that matters, isn't she?"

Tom looked away, blushing and unable to contain his smile.

"Come on," Claire said pulling him back toward the house. "I've made a good lunch, and I don't want it spoiled."

* * *

That evening when Matthew, Tom and Isobel stepped into the drawing room, Robert and Cora were there alone, as the girls had not come down yet.

"Good evening," Cora said brightly.

Isobel, thinking it best to have it all done with, took a deep breath and put on as optimistic a smile as she could muster. "Matthew tells me you'll be in need of a cook for a brief period."

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore will be having surgery on her cataracts, and she'll need a few days for the trip to London and then to convalesce," Cora answered.

"Well, we'll be happy to share ours, assuming you'll want her once we tell you what we're about to tell you."

Cora and Robert exchanged puzzled glances.

Isobel looked at Matthew and Tom for a moment, then turned back to Robert and Cora. "Our housekeeper serves as our cook. She's quite wonderful. She'd been with me for more than twenty years. Her name is Claire Branson."

Tom waited a moment, then added for good measure, "She's my mother."


	27. The Aftermath, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this meets expectations or—at least—that I've written it in such a way that readers can understand where the characters are coming from. I'll point out once again that because they get along so well in this story, Tom and Robert's relationship here may SEEM out of character, but I really have tried to be as faithful to what I believe the show has presented within the different circumstances I have built. To be honest, of all the relationships in this story, Tom and Robert's is the probably the most different from the show because (1) on the show Tom crosses a line that is sacrosanct to Robert and everything canon Tom does from that point is judged by Robert through that lens—that doesn't happen here. And (2) on the show Robert does not experience the consequences of his poor management of the estate the way he does here. Even though it's temporary, the loss of Downton deeply changes Robert and makes him appreciate Tom and Matthew's business savvy and smarts. Conversely, when Robert hands over the reigns, allowing Tom to dictate staff salaries and agrees to help the tenants work toward future ownership of the land, in Tom's eyes, Robert's willingness to compromise on these points sets him apart from other upper class men. Just something to keep in mind in reading this chapter.
> 
> This chapter and the next are companion pieces and both of them will jump back and forth between action that starts hours after the revelation and flashbacks to the immediate aftermath. It should make sense as you read.

 

Robert was sitting on the bed of his dressing room, shoulders slumped and a blank expression on his face when Bates knocked on the door. The knock was a bit of a formality. Bates knew Robert was in the room but wanted to announce himself. By the third knock, Bates wondered if something was wrong and decided to peek in.

Bates wasn't sure what to make of the sight of his employer looking as if he'd finished re-reading his favorite book only to find that, to his great disappointment, someone had changed the ending on him.

"Is everything all right, milord?"

Bates' voice finally pulled Robert out of his reverie. "Bates . . . have you been there long?" Robert asked, still seeming a bit distracted.

"No, I just came in."

"Oh."

When Robert did not stand for Bates to take Robert's dinner jacket, Bates wondered whether he should ask again if something was the matter. Before he could say anything, though, Robert spoke up.

"Do you ever feel like the world is upside down?"

"I think I feel that most days, milord," Bates said, the left side of his lips curving into a small smile.

"I'm not averse to change, you know," Robert said. "I know everyone thinks I am. They treat me as if I'm incapable of understanding how resolutely our world spins ever forward. I was that way once, perhaps, but life has taught me things few in my position are ever given the chance to learn. And yet they still treat me like a relic that needs to be _handled_."

Bates's brow furrowed. In his years of knowing Robert, Bates couldn't remember ever seeing him like this. Robert was not a man prone to introspection or to question himself. Even when he was forced to accept the loss of Downton and Bates expected a torrent of emotion from him, Robert remained stoic. This—whatever _this_ was—was different.

After a moment's silence, Bates ventured a question, "And who might _they_ be, milord?"

Robert turned back to Bates abruptly. "Pardon me?"

"You said, _'They_ still treat me like a relic that needs to be handled.' I asked merely who 'they' are?"

Robert shook his head, finally standing from the bed and moving toward Bates so the valet could take his jacket and clothes. "Never mind me. It's been a long night."

"Mr. Carson said dinner was very quiet."

Robert sighed. "It was."

* * *

_"She's your what?" Robert asked. He didn't raise his voice, to Tom and Matthew's surprise. In fact, his tone sounded not angry, but confused, as if he hadn't understood or heard the words that had come out of Tom's mouth._

_"She's my mother," Tom repeated._

_"Oh," Cora said blinking a few times._

_Eager not to let any silence linger for long, Isobel spoke up. "We can understand if you'd prefer she not come to fill in, but—"_

_"Wait," Cora said without looking up, as if Isobel's voice had interrupted her train of thought. After a moment, she looked up again and focused her eyes on Isobel. Neither she nor Robert had looked Tom in the eye yet, which had not escaped Tom's notice._

_"What do you mean we'd prefer if she didn't come?" Cora asked, finally finding her bearings after the momentary shock had started to dissipate. "Why do you think we wouldn't want her?"_

_Cora saw out of the corner of her eye as Tom and Matthew both looked at Robert after she spoke. Neither of them said anything, but they had, for all intents and purposes, answered her question. They expected her and Robert to snub Tom's mother—Tom's_ mother— _and perhaps even Tom as well._

_"We'd understand if you wouldn't feel comfortable . . . blurring the lines, so to speak," Isobel continued._

_"Is that what you call it?" Robert asked, finally speaking again, an accusation in his tone that none in the room could miss._

_Matthew spoke up quickly. "We don't call it anything. We understand it's an unusual arrangement—"_

_"Unusual?" Robert said, drawing out the syllables as if he was saying the word for the first time and trying to discern its meaning, which was more or less the case. After all, what could Matthew—who had proven himself so different, so_ modern _, in his thinking compared with Robert—mean by such a word? What was usual and ordinary to Matthew that Robert would also define as such?_

_"Robert, please," Cora cut in._

_"Please, what? I'm simply asking what he means!"_

_Isobel stepped forward once more, "Tom and Claire came to us when Tom was only a year old. My late husband and I allowed him to spend his day in the nursery with Matthew while his mother worked, and eventually Reginald took such a shining to him that we resolved to treat him as our own. He was raised as a middle class son—"_

_"But he's not," Robert interrupted, his eyes finally landing on Tom's. Robert had gotten to know the young man so well in the past year, reading his emotions in this moment was rather easy, and Robert could see in Tom's eyes a measure of apology, but also his usual defiance._

_"I'm not only if you choose to define me by where I'm from instead of where I'm going," Tom said. He held Robert's stare, which was radiating his obvious disappointment, for a long moment, before turning to Cora and adding more quietly, "I sincerely apologize if you feel deceived by me. That was never my intent. If there is a fault to be found in my seeming duplicity, it was a desire to be judged on my character alone."_

_"And, of course, you thought full honesty would have rendered us incapable of that." Robert said. "Such is you fair judgment of us?"_

_"Robert—" Both Matthew and Cora spoke up, but Robert's anger was rising, and resolved not to let it get the better of him, he strode out of the room just as Mary, Edith and Sybil were entering._

_"What's wrong with papa?" Mary asked bewildered._

_Before another word was said, Tom followed Robert out of the room._

_"Robert," Tom called out but received no answer. He continued his pursuit through the hall and into the library. "ROBERT!"_

_Robert had stopped in the middle of the room, but he still offered no response._

_Finally, Tom let out a soft, mirthless laugh, his shoulders drooping in defeat. "Lord Grantham, is that how I am to address his lordship from now on? Will that be the only way you will answer me?"_

_Robert swept around to him angrily, "How dare you?"_

_"How dare I WHAT?!" Tom retorted, his own anger consuming him. "Talk to you as if we are equals, as if we are family? Am I too common to be your friend now?"_

_"How dare you make presumptions about me or the very family to which you refer, the family into which we welcomed you without question!"_

_"Are you telling me that if you had known, you would have treated me no differently? Because there is no honesty in that. You are a kind and thoughtful man, Robert, but you are a product of your class. You quarrel with me over the expectations I have as to your conduct, but you and I both know your peers would expect no different from you. Do you condemn them as you condemn me?"_

_"If I am a product of my class, are you not a product of yours?"_

_Tom took a deep breath. "I won't apologize for who I am, and I am proud of my parents, but I chose to stand on my own two feet. You perceive a deliberate deception in that choice and perhaps you will ascribe what you now see as an innate deceitfulness in me to my breeding or whatever you like to call it, but I want my choices and my actions to define me. Nothing else."_

_"So_ you _may overcome the prejudices ascribed to your birth, but I may not overcome those you ascribe to mine?"_

_Tom looked down. "I didn't say that."_

_Robert took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't misunderstand you Tom. I can see why you would keep such a truth to yourself."_

_"You put your faith in me, Robert, and I am quite sorry if you feel I have broken your trust. You know I exercise my own political beliefs, but even in so doing, nothing in my work on your behalf or for the estate was done out of anything except respect and honest affection."_

_The two men looked at one another for a long time. Tom was about to speak again, when Carson stepped into the room._

_"Dinner is served, my lord."_

_"Thank you, Carson," Robert replied. "We'll be there presently."_

_Carson gave a slight bow and left again. Robert looked at Tom again, then walked past him toward the door, stopping just before going through it._

_"You do not have to fear being cast out for this, Tom, and your mother is welcome here to serve in Mrs. Patmore's stead if she chooses to do so." He paused, as if to collect himself, then added, "I do not regret putting my trust in you. I'm only sorry to learn now that I did not have yours."_

_With that he left the room. Tom sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. He was glad the truth was out, and he had been ready to accept banishment as the outcome. He realized only now, however, that that would have been less punishing than being allowed to stay but no longer in the role of Robert's favorite, which was exactly what he was now facing._

* * *

 

Cora's book was open on her lap, and though she pretended to be reading it, her mind had been trained on Robert from the moment he'd entered the room and sat down with his back to her on their bed.

After a few minutes, his head turned slightly toward her. "Did you talk to the girls?"

"I did. Isobel explained things in the parlor before you joined us, so they'd had some time to absorb the news. They were surprised, of course, but didn't really have much to say. Sybil, in particular, seemed more eager to know my thoughts than anything else."

"What are your thoughts?" Robert asked.

Cora sighed. "He's such a nice young man, and he's been so helpful to us. I suppose it may seem unorthodox to you not to be bothered by it, but it's different for me."

"How could I forget, you're an American," Robert said with a soft laugh.

"That's not what I mean, Robert," Cora said seriously.

Robert faced forward again. "It's not the same."

"Isn't it, though?"

"Your mother was from an established family in New York, and your father a welcomed member of society by the time you were born."

"But that's not how he started out, and that's certainly not how your mother saw him—oh, heavens, what will _she_ say?"

"Of all the nights for mama to miss dinner."

"I'll go see her in the morning," Cora said.

"I'll go."

"Robert, I think this news will be best delivered by me."

"Are you so afraid I won't give a fair accounting of the facts?"

Cora sighed. "You're angry, and there's nothing wrong with your being angry, but she's so fond of him. We need to be sensitive to that."

"We'll go together then."

Robert stood and climbed into bed next to Cora. She closed her book and set it on her night table. She turned toward Robert, who was staring blankly at the ceiling.

"How long will Tom be out of your favor?" She asked.

Robert sighed. "I don't know."

"Can we really blame him? He despises our rules, but he's lived by them in the past year out of affection and friendship for us—for _you_. Doesn't that count for anything?"

He looked at Cora out of the side of his eyes. "I am fully aware of his _magnanimity_."

Cora snickered. "Please don't be sarcastic."

"I told him he need not expect further rebuke from me. That is how I'm leaving it for the moment."

Cora smiled, and Robert questioned her with his expression.

"You may not appreciate me saying so, but you have a hard time keeping a stiff upper lip when your feelings have been hurt. I know you dislike that about yourself, but I must say, were it not the case, I couldn't love you as I do."

Robert smiled and kissed her forehead. "And thank God for that."

* * *

In another corner of the house, Sybil was sitting at her writing desk, staring off into space, absentmindedly twirling her pen in her fingers. She'd begun to write down her thoughts on Tom's revelation to the family but had to stop, laughing to herself about her inability to find the words to describe the palpable awkwardness that had hung over dinner. None of the sisters knew the reason for the tension until after, in the parlor, when Cora told them Mrs. Branson would be filling in for Mrs. Patmore, with Isobel quickly following up to explain who exactly Mrs. Branson was. Sybil didn't bother to feign surprise, but her family members seemed so absorbed in their own reactions, none seemed to notice that it wasn't news to her. When she spoke to Tom later, they were both happy to have it out in the open, even knowing the complications that would arise—some of those complications openly acknowledged by them, some only silently so.

Indeed, it was unlike any evening she had ever experienced.

Sybil set down pen to paper once more, but stopped when she heard a light knock. The door opened slightly and Edith peeked in.

"Are you up?" She asked quietly.

"I am. Come in." Sybil stood from her desk and came over to her bed, pulling on the coverlet to let Edith climb in beside her. The sisters rolled onto their sides facing one another.

"That was quite a night," Edith said.

Sybil sighed. "I don't think I've ever seen papa quite so serious at dinner. He barely said two words."

"Do you think eventually he will forgive Tom?" Edith asked.

Sybil bristled at the question. "I don't understand why there has to be anything to forgive. Tom's done nothing wrong, unless you think him no longer welcome because—"

"Of course I don't think that, Sybil!"

"I'm sorry. It just seems to me a silly thing to be upset about."

"Well," Edith said, carefully, "he did lie about his background."

"No, he didn't! If anyone had bothered to ask he would have answered honestly."

Edith narrowed her eyes. "How do you know that?"

Sybil rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling.

"Sybil? Did _you_ ever ask him?"

After a moment's pause she answered, "Yes. Well, no—not exactly. The point is he told me."

"When?"

"The night of my birthday last year."

"You've known all this time!"

Sybil looked over to Edith again. "I wasn't keeping it a secret exactly."

"Did he ask you not to say anything?"

"No! On the contrary, he said if I wanted to tell everyone, I could. Really, Edith, do you think so little of Tom?"

Edith rolled her eyes. "Please, stop. You know I don't. It's just . . ."

"It's just what?"

"I can see why you'd keep it from papa, that's all." Edith smiled seeing confusion in her sister's expression, so she continued. "To make things easier when the time came for . . . well, you know."

"I really don't," Sybil said.

"When the time came for Tom to ask for your hand, silly! I'm not blind."

Sybil blushed and smiled slightly. But her smile faded after a moment, and she bit her lip. "Do you suppose it will be difficult now?"

"I don't know. I'm inclined to believe papa will come around, though it will take time. Who ever knows with granny?"

"I do love him terribly. I dare say I'm prepared to run away if papa objects."

Edith laughed. "I don't think it will come to that." Getting serious again, she added, "I doubt very much that acceptance will come before your season, though."

"It's all right. I've assumed as much. It will be fun, I think, with Tom there with me."

"Assuming he'll be allowed," Edith said, feeling the need to tamp down Sybil's expectations.

"I know Rome wasn't built in a day, but we'll have a year to smooth things over in that regard."

Edith wanted to tell Sybil that the question of Tom being received in London wasn't just up to their parents. In fact, other than her own ball, it was unlikely the son of a servant would be invited anywhere at all. In some ways, London society was less discriminating than what the Crawleys were used to in Yorkshire; in other ways it was much more so. But Edith knew that Sybil wasn't naive and that ultimately it wouldn't matter to her. There was no sense in belaboring the point, not when Edith's curiosity was getting the better of her on other matters.

"So if you known of his mother . . ."

Sybil smiled. "You're asking if I've met her."

"Have you?"

"Yes. She's a lovely person. I can see her influence on him as easily as I can see Cousin Isobel's."

Edith thought for a moment. "You know, I'm remembering now something that Cousin Matthew said to me. At the servants ball, when Tom was dancing with granny, Matthew and I were dancing together, and I made a joke about Tom having a way with women. Matthew said it must come from having two mothers. I don't think he even noticed he said it. At the time, I thought he meant that Tom was raised by a woman other than his natural mother, not that they were both in his life at the same time."

Sybil smiled, thinking about how much more at ease Edith was now that Matthew was in her life. It might have saddened Sybil that they had not fallen in love were it not so clear now that at the point at which Edith and Matthew met, Edith was most in need of a friend, not a suitor. The friendship had obviously done her good.

"Edith," Sybil said quietly. "I hope what I'm about to say doesn't trouble you, but as sorry as I was to lose James and Patrick, I'm glad that Matthew will be the one who follows papa. Mrs. Branson has been a kind of mother to him as well and a good influence. I think someone of his mind will do the title true justice."

Edith smiled. "I agree. I did love Patrick, but he wasn't always a good person. I was willing to forgive his faults because of how I felt, but his love for me was selfish. I can see that now." Edith sat up as if to leave, but then turned to face Sybil, who sat up as well.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," Sybil said with a smile, noticing something of a longing expression on Edith's face.

"What is it like for you? Being in love."

Sybil thought for a moment, trying to summon as honest and coherent an answer as she could to what she knew to be a sincere question. "It's hard to put into words . . . my heart races when I see him. Everything he says I want to remember exactly as he said it. I feel free to say or think or feel anything at all with—as if I am more myself around him than I am around anyone else or even when I'm alone. I don't _need_ him to be myself or to do as I wish—I believe he'd be disappointed in me if that were the case—but it just helps to know that somewhere there's a friend who will always understand me no matter what."

Edith smiled and looked down at her hands. "Matthew told me that he should like to see me with someone who enjoys my driving." She looked up to Sybil's eyes again and the sisters fell into a fit of giggles.

After they'd calmed a bit, Edith threw herself back on the bed with a sigh. "When he said it, I took him literally, but listening to you, I understand that he meant I should be with someone who understands what I like. Patrick didn't always. In fact, he never did."

"It _should_ be someone who understands what you like—and who loves you for it."

Standing up again, Edith said. "I don't know if such a man exists, but I shall go now so I may dream of him."

Sybil laughed as Edith walked over to the door. "Do you think he loves you?" Edith asked.

Sybil sighed contentedly. "I know he does."

"We should go to Crawley House tomorrow. I know Tom and Matthew will be at the partnership, but it will be nice to see Cousin Isobel, and offer a reminder that nothing will change."

"Oh, Edith! That's a wonderful idea!"

"And I'll drive us," Edith said quickly, leaving the room as soon as the words had left her lips, leaving Sybil no chance to argue the point.

* * *

_After Robert and Tom had left the drawing room, the girls stepped in wondering what exactly had driven them out in the first place._

_"You know how your father can get," Cora answered after Mary asked about what had driven him out of the room._

_"He and Tom aren't fighting, are they?" Sybil asked, a bit concerned._

_Isobel looked to Cora, silently asking whether the news would be shared with the young ladies._

_"It's nothing that won't be smoothed over eventually," Cora said finally._

_"Is there something we can do to help?" Sybil persisted._

_"There isn't. I'll explain after dinner," Cora said._

_"Are you missing London yet?" Matthew asked, turning to Edith, who was next to him, trying to guide the conversation to a safe topic._

_"It takes longer than one afternoon, for me," she said with a smile. "By the time next May comes around, I'll have forgotten how tedious it can be and look forward to going back again, but for a good long while I'll be quite happy that this is home."_

_"Well, Downton was certainly not the same without all of you here," Matthew said._

_For several moments, nobody spoke, and Mary, Edith and Sybil looked at one another a bit puzzled. Conversation on the first night the two families had met had been stilted, but never since, not like this._

_Isobel spoke again in an effort to fill the silence. "Will Violet not be joining us this evening? She's usually so prompt."_

_"She's sent a note to inform us she's feeling under the weather," Cora said._

_Isobel and Matthew looked at one another realizing that her absence would prolong the process of telling the family about Tom in a way they had been hoping to avoid._

_"I'll be by to see her tomorrow," Cora said, looking at Isobel, obviously aware of her concerns regarding who would be the one to tell Violet._

_That it would be Cora eased Isobel's worries somewhat, though she resolved to pay a call to Violet herself. She had a feeling that the loss of her good opinion would hurt Tom as much as the loss of Robert's. Isobel felt the need to soften the blow as much as possible. She knew Tom to be as proud of what he'd been born with as he was of what he'd been given by her and her husband and of what he'd earned on his own, but Tom was also not without feelings. Despite the misgivings he (and Isobel herself) might have felt in stepping into the world of Downton, Isobel knew Tom's heart had made room for all of them rather easily._

_"Perhaps, I should go see what's keeping Tom and Robert," Matthew said, but just at that moment, Carson stepped in to announce that dinner was served._

_As they all stood to go, Cora told the butler, "Carson, I believe his lordship and Mr. Branson are in the library. Do go and fetch them, will you?"_

_"Yes, my lady," he answered._

_As they moved toward the dining room, Mary fell into step next to Matthew. "I do hope everything is all right. Is there trouble with the estate?"_

_Matthew smiled. "No. It's more of a personal matter. But one that I hope will be put aside in due course."_

_"Papa is more stubborn than you are likely to know, so even not knowing what it is, I'll warn you to adjust your expectations accordingly," Mary said._

_"Are you as stubborn as he?"_

_"Some would be willing to say I am much worse."_

_Matthew laughed, but in his mind he hoped that for Tom's sake and for his own that, at least in this case, that would not prove true._

_They were settling into their seats when Robert came into the dining room, with Tom completing the party a short while later. Tom's chair was directly across from Sybil, whose warm smile throughout the evening served as a reminder as to why he was there at all._

* * *

Isobel, Matthew and Tom rode back in silence, though it was not an uncomfortable one. All three of them were emotionally exhausted by the evening's events, and each was still trying to decipher exactly how things would change. The truth was that for the most part nothing would be changing. Superficially, at least, life would be going on as it was before. And everyone seemed in relative agreement that the rift that now existed between Tom and Robert would eventually heal. Everyone, that is, except Tom and Robert.

When they got back to Crawley House, Moseley watched them expectantly as they came in. Seeing his expression, Isobel smiled.

"No need for concern, Moseley. The world remains unbroken, for the most part."

"The same may not be said about Lord Grantham's ego," Matthew said jokingly.

"Who would have thought it so fragile," Tom added, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Moseley smiled as he saw both Tom and Matthew proceeding directly to the parlor, where, he had no doubt, they would be opening the whiskey. Isobel stood watching them alongside Moseley. He turned to her and asked quietly, "Things really are all right?"

"As well as can be expected," she answered. "We have upset the balance yet again, but the Robert Crawleys have proven themselves able to rise to the occasion before. I have no doubt they will do so again."

"If I may say, Mrs. Crawley, you being as practical and sensible a woman as you are, the faith you put in Lord Grantham and his lot sometimes surprises me."

Isobel turned to Moseley. "I believe we are primarily what we make of ourselves, but I also believe there are things— _good_ things—in our nature that cannot be denied. The blood line that produced Robert Crawley also produced my husband, and I cannot bring myself to believe that they are all that far apart. I trust the Crawleys to do what is right by the faith I have in my husband, and indeed the faith he would have in them as his family. At the end of a day like today, Reginald remains the North Star toward which I always turn. He does not guide me wrong."

With that she went upstairs.

In the parlor, Tom poured himself and Matthew each a glass and then sat down with a laugh.

"I suppose that could have been much worse," Tom said.

"They could have thrown us out on the spot," Matthew said, twirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip.

"And just when the staff was starting to get used to you," Tom replied. They both laughed for a moment, then Tom's face became serious again. "What do you suppose the old man would've made of all this?"

"It's funny," Matthew said, "I find myself thinking of him more now that I live here and know what awaits me than I did before, when my future was a blank slate. When I didn't know what was to come, I didn't know what help I would need. Now I wish for his counsel more than ever."

Without saying a word, Tom lifted his glass. Matthew did as well, both of them toasting to the man who had raised them, whom they still loved and missed dearly.

"So where did you and Robert leave things?" Matthew asked.

"Robert is _disappointed_ in me," Tom answered.

"Is he disappointed that his favorite son is not who he thought he was or not so well born as he might have hoped?"

Tom smirked. "Disappointed that I did not give him the opportunity to accept me as I really was from the start. Disappointed that by not revealing myself until now, I have also revealed how little I think of him and his capacity for empathy."

"Do you believe he would have accepted you as he did had he known?"

Tom looked at Matthew with an expression that clearly suggested he did not. "People like Robert tend to think the best of themselves," Tom said after taking a drink. "I believe that on the surface he is sincere in his belief that nothing would have changed, but I know and I believe even he knows deep down that that is not the case. I have no way of convincing myself he would have been willing to entrust the state to you _and_ to me, certainly not as easily as he did, knowing then what he knows now."

"You're probably right," Matthew said. "And I'm sure he is disappointed in _himself_ by that knowledge. There's something in that with regard to how much he values you."

"I don't blame him entirely," Tom said after a while. "He was never taught anything except his own superiority. But I disappoint myself in my willingness to make excuses for his snobbery."

"So neither one of you is as angry with the other as you are angry at yourselves—which makes you more similar than you are different."

Tom laughed. "I wish I knew why any of it matters so much to me, so I could know how to make it stop mattering."

Matthew stood up laughing. He finished his drink in one gulp and set the empty glass down on the table. "You know exactly why you care so much. I would think knowing she is the reason makes everything easier."

"Except I've made it all more difficult for us by this revelation, haven't I?"

"Did you ever intend to marry Sybil as something other than your true self?"

"No."

"Then you know it was always going to be difficult." Matthew sighed, then went on. "I told you once that I believed they would not object out of hand to your interest in her. Mother may think me naive, but that is still what I believe. It may not be the easiest road, but you are surer of your love now than you were when we first spoke of this, so now you know that the travel will be worth it."

Tom smiled bashfully. "Thank you."

"For?"

"Everything."


	28. The Aftermath, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the last chapter, this one also flashes back and forth between the present (now the morning after) and the evening of the big reveal. Next chapter will go back to the normal structure. 

Standing by the window in Mary's room, Sybil kept her eyes on her sister as Mary leaned over her jewelry box and sorted through its contents in search of her favorite pendant.

"Mary, please say something," Sybil said, a bit annoyed.

"This is the worst kind of betrayal. Is that what you want to hear?"

Sybil tried to keep her composure as long as possible, but after only several seconds, she burst out laughing.

"I'm being perfectly serious," Mary insisted, hands working more furiously than before as her annoyance got the better of her. "To have promised Edith I would step into the car with her behind the wheel? It's absolutely ridiculous."

"Mary, it's you who's being ridiculous. She's a good driver."

Mary glanced over at Sybil with a skeptical look in her eyes. "Even you don't believe that."

Sybil smiled. "Perhaps not, but I already promised. Anyway, it's a short distance, and you can't deny her the joy driving brings her."

"I can if it means putting my life in her hands or do you forget that she is less fond of me than she is of everyone else in the family?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I'll be in the car with you, and if she's really terrible we can walk back," she insisted. "But both Pratt and Tom have said that she's ready for the road."

"Well, Tom has proven himself of questionable judgment, hasn't he?"

Sybil's expression closed up at her sister's words.

Mary straightened up, seeing Sybil's reaction, and turned to face her. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I was making a joke."

"No, you weren't," Sybil said quietly.

Mary watched her sister as she turned away from her to look out the window. Mary approached carefully, putting her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Nothing is going to change. You heard mama."

"Your mind has changed," Sybil said. "Just as papa's. I can tell."

Mary sighed "This is not a topic I'm keen to discuss, but if you insist, I'll point out that Papa doesn't appreciate being lied to and neither do I."

"Tom didn't lie! How many times do I have to say it!"

"It was a lie of omission, Sybil. Don't be stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by keeping it to himself—they all did."

"Oh, so you'll now cast Matthew aside as well for the mere association? What exactly do you have to gain by pushing them away except the loss of people you know to be good friends!? Or do you hope to improve your standing among those who have already tossed you aside?" Sybil shrugged off Mary's hand, knowing how petulant she sounded, but unable to control her anger. Edith was completely unphased by the revelation, but Mary had been more circumspect, which Sybil couldn't help but take somewhat personally, given that Mary had been the one in whom she'd chosen to confide about her feelings for Tom.

Mary took a deep breath. She didn't mind being called a snob. She supposed the label was more or less accurate, but she didn't like it coming from Sybil, for whom the word wasn't merely a descriptor, but an accusation.

"You know perfectly well that I'm as fond of him— _both_ of them—now as I was before."

"I _don't_ know," Sybil challenged. "Are you?"

"I am. Speaking specifically of Tom, I like him as much as I can like a any person who always has to be right," Mary replied, with a smile forming at her last words, easing at least some of the tension between them.

Sybil couldn't help but smile back. "I'll agree that his confidence can occasionally veer into overconfidence with amusing results, but he's really not as bad as you say."

"Not to you, perhaps, but not everyone can love him as you do, can they?"

"No," Sybil said, her smile fading. She looked at Mary for a long moment, trying to discern her true feelings, believing her older sister to be hiding much of what she truly felt.

Mary could feel the scrutiny of her gaze. "Must you be so pious about this of all things? It's a lot to digest. It isn't unreasonable to want time to adjust."

"To adjust to what? If nothing truly is going to change—what exactly is there for you to get used to?"

"Sybil, you can't deny that he is a different person from whom we thought he was."

"I will deny it! To me he's never been anything other than himself. Perhaps to you and others he's _seems_ different now, but he's not different in any meaningful way or in any way that really matters."

"Sybil, not everybody's like you. We have friends who may not take kindly to it. People we love, whose opinions we've always valued."

"I thought you had stopped caring about such things."

"To a point. . . . " Mary trailed off and turned away for a moment with a sigh before facing her sister again. "Sybil, I'm not you. You're the strong one. You don't really care what people think, but I'm afraid I do. I've tried to put on a brave front this year, tried to laugh off the talk in London, but you can't expect me to have completely done away with who I am, with the person papa, mama and granny have always expected me to be. I want to be the best sister to you and I don't dislike Tom—truly, I don't—but I can't help the way I react to things."

Mary watched as Sybil fidgeted with the curtain, seemingly more and more ill at ease with the tension that had been bubbling up between them since last night.

"What does it matter to you what I think, anyway?" Mary added, hoping to lighten things up again.

"I'd like to know you don't disapprove," Sybil answered.

Mary rolled her eyes again but this time it was with a smile. "As if anyone's approval or lack of it ever stopped you from doing anything."

Sybil looked down at her feet, conceding the point with her soft laughter.

"My opinion of Tom hasn't changed, not significantly, anyway," Mary said. "But at the same time, I won't—I can't deny feeling a measure of . . . disillusionment." She went on, seeing the protest in Sybil's eyes. "Not at _Tom_ , just at life—I'd hoped I was done having to be surprised that things turn out differently from what I expect. This is harder to accept than anything else because . . . "

Mary trailed off, immediately wishing she hadn't started to acknowledge out loud the hardest truth that Tom's revelation had forced her to face.

"Because what?" Sybil asked, brow furrowed.

Mary smiled sadly. "Because this underlines how different you and I are. How different our lives are going to be."

Sybil looked down, in her silence conceding this point as well. For all of their similarities in terms of character and for as close as they'd been as they grew up, there was no denying that she and Mary had grown up to be very different people who wanted very different things from life.

"I know we don't want the same things, but we'll always be sisters," Sybil said, grabbing onto Mary's hands. "Nothing will ever change that, and as long as we remember that, nothing else matters."

"Everything matters, darling. But I appreciate the sentiment, and I promise I will always try my best for you."

Mary pulled Sybil into a hug. Sybil held Mary tightly. Sybil hadn't considered herself a child for a number of years, but in Mary's words she truly felt as if the last piece of her childhood was slipping through her fingers, the ties that kept Sybil close to her family and her oldest sister no longer as unbreakable as they once felt.

It hadn't happened all at once, but over the course of the past year, love and marriage and a real education and work and politics had ceased being abstractions to Sybil, becoming instead actual things that might and would change her life—things that, having met Tom, she now wanted to immerse herself in fully. And perhaps because Sybil had seen her sisters grow up before her, Sybil was smart enough to know at the start of her adulthood, that the life she now envisioned for herself alongside Tom was not the life her family would necessarily choose for her.

That truth had existed as a small seed in the back of Sybil's mind for some time, but with Tom's parentage now out in the open, it had grown into an undeniable certainty most evident to the sister who had always known her best. Tom was no longer just a middle class man who'd done better than most; he was a man of low birth who had risen by his wits to stand as an equal among them, a living embodiment of everything that the worst of aristocratic society stood firmly against—and everything that stirred Sybil's passions. The moment Mary knew his true identity it was evident to her that Sybil had known all along. And in that moment Mary understood that she and her beloved baby sister already were on paths that would take them in diverging directions.

Neither seemed eager now to step away from their hug, but eventually Sybil pulled away slightly, a cheeky smile on her face.

"In the name of the sisterly affection between us that you so fear will someday be but a memory, will you do something for me?"

"What?" Mary asked, warily.

"Will you let Edith drive us to Crawley House?"

Mary rolled her head back in exasperation. "Fine!"

* * *

_"Please tell Mrs. Patmore that was a fine dinner, Carson," Cora said quietly as she stood from the table. "We're all a bit tired from our travels, so the conversation was slow tonight. Don't think any of it comes from displeasure with her."_

_"Thank you, my lady. She will be pleased to hear it," Carson replied._

_Cora tried to make eye contact with Robert as she, Isobel and the girls moved toward the door to head to the parlor behind Carson, but Robert still wasn't looking up from his plate. She was starting to get annoyed with him. Robert could get peevish when he got bad news, and in such moments as this, it was up to Cora to see that the gathering remain bright and pleasant. She did not mind the job—she was the hostess, after all—but she also wished to relay to Robert that he was being rather selfish. She was entitled to a reaction to the news as well but had been forced to set her feelings aside in order to keep up appearances for the staff at dinner. She and Isobel and Matthew muddled through talk of London and the upcoming garden party for the hospital, with the girls piping in occasionally even as they grew more confused by the minute as to the nature of the obvious tension between Robert and Tom, neither of whom offered much to help move along the conversation._

_As she got to the door, Cora turned back to the table one more time, but instead of Robert, her eyes landed on Tom, who seemed neither entirely uncomfortable, nor entirely at ease. He looked to her just then like the kind of man who was only ever at home in his own mind—a man like her father, the humble shopkeeper turned industry titan. Catching his eyes, Cora narrowed hers a bit as if she could see into Tom's mind by doing so. Tom smiled. It was a reassuring smile and a grateful one. It was everything Cora needed in that moment._

What is worse than a stodgy dinner with friends? _She asked herself._ One with no friends at all.

_Cora thought of the fight Tom had offered to fight on her behalf to recover what was left of the fortune her father-in-law had, in Tom's words, stolen from her—a fight he would have waged against the interests of a friend he loved as a brother. She smiled back at him and then moved along, resolving as she walked through the hall that no matter what Robert or Violet would say she would not turn her back on him._

_Behind her, Isobel walked silently next to Mary with Edith and Sybil behind them whispering to each other._

_As soon as they were in the parlor, as they were all sitting down, Edith finally asked, "Mama what is the matter? Is there a quarrel between Tom and Papa? Surely, you can tell us."_

_Without answering Edith, Cora addressed Carson, who had begun pouring sherry for them._

_"Carson, would you mind bringing some of the cherry cordial we had at tea time? It was quite delicious, and I believe Mrs. Crawley would enjoy it. You can serve the girls when you return."_

_"Certainly, my lady," Carson said as he handed Cora her sherry glass._

_Edith seemed a bit confused as to why her mother was ignoring her so plainly, but Mary saw the ruse for what it was and realized that whatever was troubling her father was evidently something that could not be discussed in front of the help._

_Also eager to know the truth, Sybil spoke up. "Mama, you did say you would explain after dinner. Please tell us."_

_Cora and Isobel exchanged looks. After setting her sherry down on the table next to her, Cora took a deep breath and began, "As you know Mrs. Patmore has been having some trouble with her eyes. Your father and I have decided to send her to a specialist in London for an operation."_

_"Is it dangerous?" Sybil asked._

_"Not at all, dear," Isobel said. "It is quite a common procedure. The more dangerous option in this situation would be to leave her as is, as she would lose her sight completely. It is very kind what your parents are doing."_

_Cora smiled and held herself back from rolling her eyes at Isobel's slightly patronizing tone._

_"When is she to go?" Edith asked._

_"As soon as we can make the arrangements," Cora replied._

_"But what does this have to do with papa and Tom?" Mary asked._

_"Well," Cora said, "we will need someone to take Mrs. Patmore's place in the kitchen while she is being cared for, and Cousin Isobel has kindly agreed to ask her cook to fill in. She, Tom and Matthew and the Crawley House staff will have their meals with us until Mrs. Patmore is healthy again."_

_Looking back on it later, Sybil couldn't quite believe she managed not to gasp or react is some other noticeable way when she realized exactly what her mother was saying. But once she did, it was hard not to guess what had come over her father. Cora having maintained her composure throughout dinner and telling them all now with such calm, it was clear to Sybil that her mother's reaction had been entirely unlike Robert's—a fact for which she was grateful and made her love her mother all the more._

_Sybil peeked at both of her sisters, both still confused as to what the issue was, and then at Isobel who presumably would take it from there. Isobel looked back at Sybil, but only for a brief moment, not wanting to reveal to the rest of the party that Sybil already knew what she was about to say._

_"Our cook is a wonderful woman," Isobel said with a bright smile. "She also happens to be Tom's mother."_

_The shock in Mary and Edith's faces was easy to see. The shock was such, in fact, that neither turned to Sybil immediately after Isobel spoke, momentarily forgetting, it seemed, that she would be the one most directly affected by the revelation. It was Cora's voice that shook them out of their own reactions._

_"This won't change anything," she said, answering the unasked question. "Tom will remain a member of the family while Mrs. Branson is here. Obviously, it will be a delicate matter to handle with the staff, but I am confident that we can follow Isobel and Reginald's good example."_

_Isobel smiled, grateful for Cora's understanding._

_Before anything else could be said, Carson stepped back into the room with the cordial Cora had requested on a silver tray. All three girls looked to Cora and the look on their mother's eyes made it quite plain that the discussion, at least for the time being, was over. Cora supposed that she might have talked things over with Robert before telling the girls—and before assuring them as to how the family would behave—but she felt confident, despite his initial reaction, that he would go along with her dictum. And anyway, making hay of it would just create gossip, and she knew how Robert and Violet felt about that._

_The room remained silent as Carson served Isobel the cordial, then returned to the table at the far end of the room for sherry for the girls. Sybil took her glass from him and saw the corners of his lips turn slightly upward seeing her smiling up at him. Sybil wondered how he—in so many ways even more of a stickler for tradition than her father—would react when a headstrong and proud woman like Claire Branson stepped into his servants hall._

How will he react if Tom and I go to see her in the kitchen _, she thought._ Indeed, how will anyone downstairs react to the whole thing?

_Sybil took a long drink of her sherry, keeping her eyes on the clock as Cora and Isobel began talking of the hospital once again. Not wanting to raise the suspicion that her departure was related to the evening's big news, Sybil waited as long as she reasonably could before leaving to search for Tom, whom she knew would not have remained in the dining room with her father and Matthew, not on this night._

_Three minutes passed._

_Then five._

_Then ten._

_Finally, when fifteen minutes had gone by, she stood to go, telling her mother she was going to her room to fetch the book she was currently reading. If she noticed the eyes of her sisters on her as she took her leave, she chose not to acknowledge them._

* * *

Despite Mary's misgivings, the trip to Crawley House went off without incident. The smoothness of the ride, however, didn't stop Mary from holding tightly onto her seat with one hand and onto Sybil even more tightly with the other. Each time the motor approached a turn, Mary's grip would get tighter still and Sybil would let out a yelp that would make Edith roll her eyes.

But even Mary's protestations couldn't dampen Edith's mood. This was the first time she'd been allowed past the gates without Tom or Pratt. What was more, while in London, on a trip to Selfridges with Rosamund, her aunt had indulged her with a pair of motoring gloves that she'd since been dying to try. The feel of the wheel in her hands made her feel positively giddy. The moments in which Edith felt in control of her own life were rare. This was one.

When the motor came to a stop in front of the house, Edith turned toward the back seat and gave her sisters a knowing look. "Dare I ask if there are any complaints?"

"I will complain about the bruises I'm likely to have on my arm tomorrow," Sybil said, rubbing the spot where Mary had been holding on to her.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I distinctly remember seeing you doing the same to Matthew when you arrived home after riding in the motor with her for the first time."

"She didn't actually know how to drive then," Sybil responded, hopping out of the vehicle, with Mary on her tails.

Edith came around the motor to meet them on the other side. "So will you be riding or walking back?"

"I suppose that could have been worse," Mary said airily, moving toward the door.

Edith turned to Sybil. "I believe that's the best compliment she's ever paid me."

Sybil giggled and pulled Edith along as Mary knocked on the door, which Moseley opened a few seconds later.

"Good afternoon, Lady Mary," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"Is Mrs. Crawley in? We've just stopped by to say hello," she said.

"She is. I'll let her know you're here. Mr. Branson is home as well."

"Oh! I assumed he would be working today," Mary said, looking back to Edith and Sybil.

"He's here to oversee Mr. Bromidge, who is putting in the house telephone," Moseley answered. "Mr. Crawley stayed home from work as well, but he went out with the estate manager, Mr. Mason, just now."

Sure enough, as soon as they approached the parlor, Tom stepped into the hall, with a short, stout man. Tom's eyes widened a bit when he saw all three Crawley daughters approaching.

Moseley, not missing a beat, immediately gestured toward the parlor entryway. "If you'll kindly proceed and have a seat, my ladies, I'll let Mrs. Crawley know you're here. May I get some tea?"

"That would be lovely, Moseley," Mary said. Then, knowing her sisters were watching her expectantly, Mary turned to Tom. "Will you join us after you've finished with the telephone business?"

Tom smiled, as always a bit in awe of how self-possessed Mary always was, regardless of the circumstances. "Certainly. Mr. Bromidge is finished, aren't you sir?"

The man nodded. "I just need to make some notes."

"You'll be coming to Downton Abbey soon, won't you?" Sybil asked him. "We're so looking forward to it. What an exciting business to be in."

"You must be expanding every day," Edith said.

"Ah, we are, milady, but that brings its problems. Training up men for the work when many have no aptitude. Ha, I can't even find a secretary who can keep pace at the moment."

Sybil eyes brightened and she exchanged an excited glance with Tom. "What?"

"It's hard with a new concept," Mr. Bromidge went on. "Too old, they can't change. Too young, and they've no experience."

"But have you filled the post yet?" Sybil asked eagerly. "Because I know just the woman."

"Well, she must hurry up. We'll, er, close the list tomorrow night."

"You'll have her application, I promise."

Sybil and Tom's eyes met again, and Tom grinned at her excitement.

Mr. Bromidge moved toward the door, where he'd left his briefcase, and Mary, Edith, Tom and Sybil filed into the parlor, but while Edith and Mary sat, Sybil remained standing.

"Are you not staying?" Edith asked jokingly.

"Actually, I don't think I will," Sybil said anxiously. "You heard Mr. Bromidge. He must have Gwen's application tomorrow. There isn't a moment to lose!"

"But we've only just arrived," Edith said. "What will we say to Cousin Isobel?"

"Don't bother, Edith, there will be no talking her out of it now," Mary said with a smile, the truth of her words making Tom laugh lightly. "But, Sybil, be sure not to disrupt Gwen's work," Mary added.

"Oh, I'll write the letter myself. I've done one for her before."

"Well, do you want me to drive you back?" Edith asked.

"You drove here? How excellent!" Tom exclaimed, looking at Edith proudly. "How did it feel?"

"Just perfect—well, the _feeling_ of driving was perfect. The motor itself not quite, if I'm honest. The clutch still sticks a bit for me, but it was better today than it's been at any time before."

"It'll come," he said, winking. Looking at Mary and Sybil, still standing next to him, "And what did the passengers think?"

"We're here in one piece," Sybil said, with a teasing tone. "But I really should start on my way back now. Do make my excuses with Cousin Isobel."

"Are you leaving already, my dear?"

They all turned to the door, to see Isobel herself come through it.

"You know well the work of women's advancement is never done," Tom said, with a smile. "Sybil's off to write an application for Miss Dawson to work for Mr. Bromidge."

Sybil nodded eagerly. "He's looking for a secretary, you see—someone who works hard but is eager to learn a new trade. I do believe Gwen would be quite perfect."

"I'm sorry you can't stay to chat, but I won't delay you. Do walk her out, please, Tom."

Tom and Sybil walked back out of the room and through the hall, past Mr. Bromidge and Moseley, to the front door. Tom opened it, and the two stepped out.

"Will you tell Gwen about the opportunity?" Tom asked.

"I don't think I will," Sybil said. "She was so disappointed the last time, but it does seem perfect for her, doesn't it?"

"To start in a new industry would certainly be easier for her than for one more set in her ways already, and I can't imagine anyone who would work harder."

"Nor can I! Oh, I do hope he gives her a chance."

They'd been making their way slowly down the front walk and stopped and turned toward one another as soon as they reached the street, both of them smiling a bit shyly.

"I suppose this visit means Edith and Mary aren't ready to cast me off," Tom said, looking down.

"They would never!"

Tom looked at Sybil with skepticism in his eyes.

Sybil smiled. "Well, not now when they know you so well." After a beat, she added more quietly, "Papa will come around as well, you'll see."

"Please don't raise your hopes too much on that account. I don't mean to speak ill of him, but I have wounded his pride, and I believe it will be sometime before he is no longer angry with me. He's not likely to ever treat me as he did before."

"I won't deny that he's stubborn, but once he's had some time, he _will_ remember what a good person you are, how you've helped him and how he enjoyed your company in the past."

Tom smiled at her optimism, but remained unconvinced himself.

Seeing the doubt in his eyes, Sybil daringly—knowing they were out in plain view for others to see—took his hand and interlaced their fingers. "But just as I told you last night as regards his reaction. None of it matters, not between you and me."

He squeezed her hand back, trying to convey even in that small gesture, all the love he felt for her.

"You best get going. Gwen's future awaits."

Sybil dropped his hand, still smiling, and headed on her way.

"Sybil?" He called out to her after she'd taken a few steps.

She turned.

"Perhaps you ought not include the fact that she works in service," he said. "These past 24 hours have been a reminder of how foolishly people can react to that sort of knowledge about someone."

She smiled and nodded, and turned to go once again.

* * *

_When she set out in search of Tom, Sybil first went to the billiard room, but finding it empty, headed first toward the drawing room, then toward the library. That was where she found him, standing in the middle of the room looking around as if for the last time._

_"Tom?"_

_He turned upon hearing her voice, and the relief that came over him, after the evening's earlier trials, was evident on its face. Sybil never wanted anyone dear to her to feel pain of any kind, but she couldn't help but love the way he responded to seeing her, the way he silently let her know just how important she was to him. She walked in quickly and, dismissing all propriety, launched herself into his arms. They held each other tightly for what felt to each of them like an eternity, but was only a matter of minutes. Remembering themselves, they pulled away a bit awkwardly, Tom taking care to put a few feet between them, lest Robert or Cora find them in too close a proximity and kick him out of the family for good._

_"Has he been just terrible?" She asked._

_"Your father? No, not terrible—at least, nothing I wasn't prepared for. He is angry, but it's . . . well, he wishes I hadn't kept it from him. He believes it evident of my ill opinion of him and his lot."_

_Sybil rolled her eyes. "I dare say I am not surprised at him trying to have it both ways, but mama did say just now that nothing would change, that you'd still be treated as a member of the family."_

_Tom smiled. "That's kind of her."_

_Sybil's brow furrowed. "It's not kind, Tom. It's the decent and correct thing to do. You've done nothing wrong, unless we are to think your having been born to parents who were poor is wrong, which is ridiculous. You had no choice, and anyway your mother is a perfectly good person. I will make my opinion to him known as frequently as necessary for him to change his mind."_

_Tom stepped forward again and grabbed her by the shoulders. "I don't doubt your solidarity, Sybil. Thank you. But I don't want you and your father to also be one the outs."_

_She smiled, not at all embarrassed at how riled up she could get on his behalf. "All right. I will say, though, that in a way I am glad that they all know now, just how far you've come."_

_"Me too," he said._

_Tom dropped his hands from her shoulders and, not able to stop himself, lightly traced the fingertips of his right hand along her hairline down to her ear, behind which he tucked a stray curl. Sybil held her breath and wondered if he'd give her the thing she'd been dreaming about for some time now. A kiss._

_But Tom's mind was too full for such a gesture at this moment, and when he spoke next he revealed one of the many things that had been roiling his mind over the course of the evening._

_"I hate to point this out, but I fear I must. This news might, um . . . complicate things."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_Tom swallowed. He knew that she knew. And he knew that she knew that he knew. But they had never spoken of their future together aloud, not really._

_"You and I . . . There might be an objection now from your parents."_

_Sybil shook her head. "No, I told you. Mama said—"_

_"Sybil, it's one thing to allow me to sit down with the family at dinner and quite another to have their permission to court you."_

_"Why would they object?"_

_"Mary turned her nose up at the idea of a marriage to Matthew, who is middle class and will inherit your father's title. Those expectations aren't hers alone. They have been encouraged in her by your parents. Do you honestly think they don't expect the same for you?"_

_Sybil felt her breath catch. However dearly she loved her family, now that she and Tom had come this far, there was no going back. Marrying him—marrying whomever she liked, in fact—was not something she would negotiate with her parents. Not anymore._

_"I don't care about what they say. You can't believe I'll hold myself to their wishes. And anyway Mary doesn't dislike Matthew, on the contrary."_

_Tom looked down to the floor, filling with something like relief and pride in her. "Still," he said looking up. "You'll not want to be cast out, will you?"_

_Sybil stepped forward again and took his hands in hers. "If it means being with you, fetch me the matches and I'll burn the bridge myself."_

_Tom laughed, even as he felt he might cry of happiness. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We can cross that bridge—and burn it, if the occasion calls for it—when we come to it, but there's time yet to hope that we won't have to."_

_Sybil and Tom continued to look into one another's eyes for a long moment, sharing between them a silent promise, when the footsteps of someone approaching the library caused them to step away from one another._

_Seconds later, Alfred stepped into the room. "Oh, excuse me, Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson. Mr. Crawley asked me to fetch some papers on the desk for him that he's to discuss with his lordship."_

_"Don't mind us, Alfred," Sybil said. "I was just coming to fetch a book. We'll be on our way back to the parlor now."_

_Sybil walked over to the nearest shelf and picked the first book she laid eyes on, a copy of The Portrait of a Lady, then gestured to Tom to follow her out of the room. She was smiling—they both were—but she didn't look at him the rest of the way to the parlor believing that whatever trace of the blush that was likely to still be on her cheeks was probably noticeable enough already._

* * *

"And?"

"What do you mean, _'and_ ,' mama?" Robert asked. He'd been pacing around in Violet's bedroom, where she sat reclined on her bed as Cora, on a chair next to the bed, relayed the news of the night before. He'd stopped short at his mother's non-reaction.

Violet looked between Cora and Robert. "You've told me that Tom's mother is Isobel's cook and you seem to be expecting some sort of response, so I'm waiting for whatever it is I'm supposed to respond to."

Cora's brow furrowed in confusion. "Do you mean to say you don't mind?"

"Mind who his mother is? Why should I mind—is she like yours at all? Because I dare say _would_ mind that very much."

Cora rolled her eyes but kept her disbelief to herself, not wanting to stir a quarrel if Violet wasn't going to do so herself.

Violet reached for her tea cup on her night table as Robert started pacing again. "Oh, sit down, Robert, for heaven's sake."

"I know you, mama," Robert said. "Stop pretending you don't have some interest in knowing where Tom really comes from, lest I start thinking your fever has muddled your brain."

"What exactly are you so upset about?" Violet asked. "So his mother is coming to cook at Downton. I should think we'd all be delighted. I can't be the only one looking forward to a break from Mrs. Patmore's dry fish."

"Well, he lied to us for starters," Robert replied.

"Oh, he did not such thing. He didn't volunteer the information, which is different. Did you ever actually _ask_ him about his mother?"

"Did you?" Cora asked incredulous.

"I didn't have to! In my nearly 80 years of life I've never met a gentleman in the peerage who did not enjoy going on at great length about who his parents are. Anyone who doesn't do so has no parentage to speak of."

"So you mean to say, you _assumed_ he was working class?" Cora asked.

"I'm rather marveled that you did not do the same. After all, Matthew himself is not a gentleman—not by our standards. Why would you think Tom was?"

Cora looked up to watch Robert as he watched his mother take a sip of her tea as if nothing at all had changed. Turning to Cora, he said in disbelief, "I'm flabbergasted."

"You're always flabbergasted when things don't happen as you expect," his wife replied with a laugh. Turning to Violet, she added, "Although I am surprised _you_ are being so forgiving."

"I do have my moments," Violet said, taking another sip of her tea. "But this is not a matter of forgiveness. Tom is proud and ambitious, and he thinks he knows better than all of us, but he's also eager to be liked. His attitude is a product of his age more than his station. You're merely surprised I've come to know and understand him better than the both of you. But you're also forgetting an important piece of the equation."

"Pray, tell, what's that? Robert asked.

"Among the three of us I'm the only one who has raised a son."

"Must it always come back to that?" Robert asked with a sigh.

"No, but in this case, that's the difference. You have three beautiful daughters, but girls are inherently different from boys, especially at this age. When you see Tom, you don't see a young man, you see what you wish you had. You made him into the son you wanted and ascribed qualities to him your own son would have had. You say you're shocked to find he isn't who he said he was, but the truth is you're shocked he isn't who you wanted him to be."

"So we were fooled by our own desire for an heir," Robert said. "How positively Freudian."

"Not an heir, a _son_. You've always had an heir, but you never raised a boy. I have. His conduct is not surprising in the least."

"Well, I maintain, Tom himself should have told us at the start. And allowing things to go on as they have is all well and good, but it doesn't change the fact that we have to find a way to tell the staff. How do you suppose we do that?"

"By telling them," Violet said, as if such a breach of everyday conduct would be the most natural thing for the likes of Carson to accept. "What are they going to say? My bet is most of them thought as I did and won't be surprised at all. Really, Robert not everything is an complicated as you hope it will be."

"Your mother's right, dear. They have a job to do. They'll manage," Cora said.

"Besides," Violet added, "do you really want to have another reason for Isobel to be as exhaustingly righteous as you know she likes to be?"

"So the son of the cook will be at the dinner table with us," Robert said.

"The brother of your heir," Cora corrected.

Violet looked back and forth between Cora and Robert, happy that the momentary squabble had been nipped in the bud. "I do have one lingering question," she said.

"And what's that, mama?" Robert asked.

"Do you suppose an Irish cook knows how to make a Charlotte Russe?"

Cora laughed. "We can only hope."

In truth, that wasn't Violet's real question, but Violet figured Robert and Cora had enough to deal with now to be burdened by her suspicions regarding their youngest daughter and the feelings Sybil might have for the young man they had just been discussing.


	29. The Telephone (and Claire Branson) Comes to Downtown

 

It wasn't until several days after they had learned the truth that Cora and Robert called Mrs. Hughes and Carson into the library and told them of what they had arranged for Mrs. Patmore, as well as who would be taking her place, whose mother the replacement cook was and their expectation that the staff's treatment of Mr. Branson not change in the slightest. As their employers concluded the meeting, Mrs. Hughes watched Carson from the side of her eyes, wondering what lay behind his stone-faced expression. Having known him all these years, she could sometimes discern his moods despite his relentless stoicism. But right now he wasn't giving her much. She could only imagine what might be going through his mind. Carson and prouder members of the staff had welcomed Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson only reluctantly. This new knowledge wasn't going to help things.

When the two had reached the top of the stairs leading to the servants hall, Carson finally spoke.

"I will relay the message to Mrs. Patmore if you send Anna down and take care to let all the girls know that we'll be discussing the arrangements for Mrs. Patmore's absence at dinner. I don't want any of them sneaking off to the village. Everyone should hear this at the same time, Mrs. Hughes, so there may be no room for misinterpretation of his lordship's instructions."

Mrs. Hughes nodded in agreement and was about to turn to go find the maids, whom she knew were making up the bedrooms at this hour of the morning, when she saw him take pause before going down the stairs. She watched him for a moment before asking, "What do you make of it all, Mr. Carson?"

"Well, it's no surprise to me that the family would be so helpful to a loyal member of the staff."

"And Mr. Branson?"

"Raising a young man of low birth as his son so that he may have better opportunities certainly distinguishes the late Dr. Reginald Crawley as equal to the name he shares with his lordship."

Mrs. Hughes smirked but held her tongue, having grown used to Carson's blandishments regarding the family for which they both worked.

"As to the young man," Carson continued, "it certainly explains his insolence."

At this, Mrs. Hughes had to speak. It was one thing for Carson to praise the Crawleys more than she might have thought was their due, but it was quite another for Carson to find excuses to cast aspersions on someone who had gone out of his way to support the staff.

"Insolence? With respect, Mr. Carson, Mr. Branson may be opinionated and certainly he speaks his mind as freely and openly as any man who is given the opportunity, but he is no more insolent than I am."

"I'll acknowledge this is not the first time we have disagreed, Mrs. Hughes, nor is it likely to be the last, but it would seem we have different definitions of the word."

"I should say so. When Lord Merton's son used to throw his cordial on the footmen as a child and ignore her ladyship's reprimands? _That_ was insolence. Mr. Branson has been most respectful and helpful to us, Mr. Carson, and if you choose not to remind the staff about that at dinner, I will do so myself."

Carson sighed. "Very well, Mrs. Hughes. No need to get worked up."

Mrs. Hughes nodded curtly and went on her way. Carson couldn't help but smile as he watched her retreating form.

_Mr. Branson has little idea_ , Carson thought, _of the ally he has in Mrs. Hughes, and certainly he doesn't know how fortunate that makes him_.

Carson continued on down the stairs, and as he got to the bottom, he saw Daisy coming out of the kitchen.

"Daisy," he said, "run and find Mrs. Patmore. His lordship wants to see her in the library."

Daisy's eyes widened in fear. "His Lordship wants Mrs. Patmore to go up to the library?"

"That is what I said," Carson replied.

Daisy momentarily wondered if what she knew Mrs. Patmore had long feared was finally coming to pass. Carson raised his eyebrows at her, and she quickly turned back toward the kitchen to fetch Mrs. Patmore. When the cook emerged with a worried-looking Daisy on her heels, Mrs. Patmore was wringing a towel with her hands.

"Come along, Mrs. Patmore," Carson said.

"But, um . . . Mr. Carson. I, I need to get luncheon started," she said nervously, believing that the meeting would be nothing more than a sacking.

"You have nothing to fear, Mrs. Patmore, now come along," Carson said, starting up the stairs.

The cook threw a worried glance at Daisy, who shrugged helplessly in response. Seeing no way to stall the inevitable, Mrs. Patmore followed, trying to hold her nerves in check.

Because her domain was the kitchen, it wasn't often that Mrs. Patmore had reason to be upstairs and as she walked behind Carson now, she pursed her lips in an effort to keep her tears at bay. Downton Abbey was a grand house but despite how long she had served here, she was always awed by its beauty. She wondered if this would be the last time that she would see these sights.

As they arrived at the library, so did Anna, from the opposite direction.

"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Patmore asked her.

"I was just about to ask you the same question," Anna responded.

"Come along, please," Carson said. He stepped through the doors and announced them with his usual dignified tone. "Mrs. Patmore, my lord."

Robert, who had been sitting at his desk, stood and approached the group.

Unable to contain her anxiety, Mrs. Patmore spoke up, "Your Lordship, I know things haven't been quite right for a while, but I can assure you—"

"Come in, Mrs Patmore," Robert said, gesturing for her to step forward.

Mrs. Patmore moved tentatively toward her employer.

"I promise you, milord, if I could just be allowed a bit more time—"

"Mrs. Patmore," Robert said, interrupting, "I've not asked you here to give you your notice."

"Haven't you?" She asked, bewildered.

"No," Robert replied. "I understand you've had some trouble with your sight."

"That's just it!" she cried. "I know I could manage better if only—"

"Please, Mrs. Patmore . . ." Robert tried to continue over her hysterics, rubbing his forehead with his fingers in the process.

"Let him speak!" Anna said, somewhat sternly, hoping get the cook to pull herself together long enough for Robert to say his piece. Turning back to him, Anna added, "Beg pardon, milord."

"Don't apologise," Robert said. "Now, on Dr. Clarkson's recommendation, I'm sending you up to London to see an eye specialist at Moorfields. Anna will go with you, and you'll stay with my sister Rosamund in her new house in Belgrave Square."

Mrs. Patmore couldn't believe her ears. She turned to Anna, as if to assure herself that she'd heard correctly. Awash in disbelief, Mrs. Patmore said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to sit in your presence, milord."

"Of course," he said, quietly.

She stumbled backwards not really knowing where to sit until Anna took her arm and guided her to the sofa. After a moment of trying to calm her racing heart, the logistics of what Robert was proposing became clear in her head. "B—but how will you get on here?" She asked, uncertainly.

Hoping to further ease her concern Robert sat down next to her. "Well, Mrs. Crawley is lending us her cook," Robert said, glancing up at Carson momentarily, then back to Mrs. Patmore. "She's coming over tomorrow before you leave. You'll be good enough to show her how things work."

"Are the Crawleys to starve while I'm away?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

"They'll eat here every evening," Robert assured. "Now, my sister's butler will look after you. He's very nice." Robert then looked to Anna, "Anna, you won't mind a return visit to London?"

"No, milord. Thank you. It'll be an adventure."

"One with a happy ending, I hope," Robert said, standing.

With Anna's help, Mrs. Patmore stood as well, and the two women, along with Carson, took their leave to head back to the servants hall.

"Part of me is inclined to think myself dreaming," Robert heard Mrs. Patmore say as they crossed into the hall and he chuckled.

The servants had a hand in just about everything that happened in the house, but it was easy to forget how intricately their lives were interwoven with those of the family. A fact that was now more clear to Robert than ever. Mrs. Patmore's declining vision had been the butterfly, whose flapping wings had started the hurricane that ultimately had left his friendship with Tom a pile of rubble. Time would repair things—at least, that's what everyone else kept telling him. And Robert supposed that he'd made more of the sting left by the hit his pride had taken than perhaps was necessary, but even just a few days removed, he couldn't do anything about his reaction now. The situation was what it was. Robert could make Mrs. Patmore's eye problems go away, but what her blindness had led to could not be so easily dealt with—not when all Robert wished was to go back and pretend none of it had ever happened.

* * *

That evening, staff members began to gather in the servants hall after the family had finished dinner and been served their wine in the drawing room. Upstairs, there was no need to wonder where the staff had all gone, as Cora and Robert had told the girls about the pending announcement. Once all were present, Carson stood at the head of the table, with Mrs. Hughes next to him on his right, to address the crowd.

"As some of you are likely to have heard by now," he began, "his Lordship has arranged for Mrs. Patmore to have a corrective operation on her eyes. She and Anna will be leaving for London tomorrow on the 11 o'clock train. I expect us all to do our best to make their absence invisible upstairs and down."

"And who will be cooking in her place?" Alfred asked from the end of the table.

Carson glanced over at Mrs. Hughes briefly, and she gave a slight nod of encouragement, so he went on. "Mrs. Crawley has been kind enough to offer her cook to serve as replacement while Mrs. Patmore is gone and unable to work. It will only be a few days. She, Mr. Crawley, Mr. Branson and the rest of the Crawley House staff will be having their meals with us in that time."

Knowing that Alfred had paid several visits to Crawley House to see Ivy, Anna turned to him and asked, "You've met her, haven't you, Alfred? Is she very nice?"

"I reckon she is," he answered.

Seeing that it was Alfred's intention to say more, Mrs. Hughes spoke up. "There is one more thing," she said, looking to Carson.

Carson nodded and spoke again. "The cook's name is Mrs. Claire Branson. If you're wondering—I'm sure all of you are—this is not a coincidence. She is Mr. Branson's mother."

There was no audible gasp, but the mood in the room did shift as everyone began to look around to see if there was anyone in the crowd who might have known.

"And before any of you start," Carson continued, "despite this new information, Mr. Branson remains a member of the family. Mr. Matthew's father, Dr. Reginald Crawley, is a grandson of the third Earl of Grantham and as such a distant son of this house. He adopted Mr. Branson as his own and his wishes will be carried out. Those are his lordship's orders."

"You mean to say we've been serving the son of a cook, a person no better than us?" O'Brien asked indignant.

"You've been serving the brother of the next Earl of Grantham and a guest of this house as is our duty," Carson said, his booming voice echoing across the room. "This is not a negotiable request, Miss O'Brien."

"I should think it easy for you, Miss O'Brien," Mrs. Hughes put in. "Seeing as you don't have to serve him at all, only mind her ladyship, yourself and your own business here with us."

"Mr. Branson is a member of the family," Carson repeated for good measure. "We owe to him just as much as to Mr. Crawley our return to this house, and our increase in wages. _Mrs._ Branson will serve alongside us and be given the respect the position merits."

Mrs. Patmore gave a snort. "This lot respect a cook? Good luck with that!"

"That is the end of the discussion," Carson said with a finality that no one dared question. He sat down and started in on his dinner, the cue for others to do the same. As the rest of the staff did so, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and the others in the kitchen staff headed back into the kitchen to have their dinner.

"Did you have any idea?" Gwen asked Alfred, who, it was clear, had not had an inkling. Gwen herself, despite her closeness to Sybil, was just as shocked to learn the information.

"None at all," Alfred answered, still a bit in shock to have been so close to the situation and never have suspected. "Ivy calls her 'Mrs. Connelly.' It always seemed to me that they were all very close, but I never would have assumed."

"Who would, what with him putting on airs like that," Thomas said with a sneer.

" _I_ could have told you," O' Brien said.

"No, you couldn't," Bates said with a bit of an eye roll. "The Crawleys polished him up well, and he's terribly clever. No one could tell."

"Please," O'Brien continued, "I could smell it on him from the start."

"You could do no such thing!" Mrs. Hughes said sternly. "And I believe Mr. Carson said that would be the end of the discussion."

For the remainder of the servants' dinner, at least, it was.

* * *

Sometime later, when the family had started making their way up to their rooms to bed, Sybil's bell rang in the servants hall. Anna stood from the table to answer, but Gwen quickly stopped her.

"I'll go," she said.

"Are you sure?" Anna asked.

"Yes," Gwen said. "Continue your conversation," she added with a gesture toward Mr. Bates, who smiled kindly in response.

Gwen was always happy to do a little bit of extra work if it meant Anna could have extra time with a man that Gwen knew Anna had grown very fond of and might actually be in love with. What was more, in this particular case, Gwen wanted to talk to Sybil about this new revelation regarding Tom.

Despite Mrs. Hughes and Carson's instructions, the staff continued to whisper about it over the course of the evening. There was some conjecture as to when Robert and Cora had found out—with some assuming the family had always known and others suggesting that if the family had known all along, the truth would have wound its way downstairs long before now. Thomas, in his cynicism regarding his employers and their like, offered that if the family had known, they would have announced it to the staff ("How else could we know how charitably they were behaving toward one of us?") and they wouldn't have allowed Tom to play a role in the running of the estate.

Whatever the truth was, Gwen felt certain _Sybil_ had known all along and was curious as to her feelings about it being made known to the staff. She also figured that Sybil would be at least somewhat concerned about how Mrs. Branson would be received and Gwen wanted to reassure her.

When Gwen reached Sybil's room, she knocked on the door and stepped through. Sybil was already out of her dress and corset and in her nightclothes, suggesting that Gwen was right to intercept Anna. Clearly, Sybil had rung so they'd have a chance to talk.

"Any word from Mr. Bromage?" Sybil asked eagerly, standing from the seat of her vanity.

"No, milady, not yet," Gwen replied.

Although it had been Sybil's intention not to tell Gwen about the opportunity lest she get her hopes up then dashed once again, when Sybil arrived back at the house after having first met the man at Crawley House and heard of his need for secretary, Sybil couldn't contain her excitement and found Gwen so they could write the letter together. Because Mr. Bromidge seemed so anxious to hire a secretary, Sybil expected a response right away, but so far they had heard nothing.

"Well, tomorrow is the day he arrives to install the telephone," Sybil said, coming over to the bed, where they both sat. "I will ask him what's happened."

Gwen smiled but said nothing, not wanting to get Sybil's own hopes up too high. It was clear to the young maid that her friend was starting to take the rejections personally.

"Speaking of goings on tomorrow," Gwen said. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes let us know tonight that Mr. Branson's mother will be serving as cook while Mrs. Patmore's getting her eyes fixed up."

"Mama said they would be making the announcement tonight," Sybil said. "How did everyone react? Do you think they will be very mean to her? She's a terribly kind person."

"I'm sure she will do just fine," Gwen said with a reassuring smile.

"I do hope she is welcomed," Sybil said, still seeming a bit concerned.

"Well you know how some of that lot downstairs can be," Gwen said, "but I reckon it will be all right. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson won't take any cheek from anyone—they made that much clear."

"I'm sure Tom's even more worried than I am," Sybil said.

"So you've met the woman?"

"Oh, yes! I've had tea with her several times at Crawley House. She is very kind, I assure you, and a fine cook, from what I've had of her meals."

"I've no doubt she is kind. Certainly, Mr. Branson speaks well of her—that is to say, his being such a kind person himself must be a reflection on his mother."

Sybil smiled. "It is."

"Haughty Miss O'Brien said she was not surprised to hear the news of his parentage, but of course, that's typical of her to say something like that. I doubt she knew any better than the rest of us, his being so accomplished and all."

Sybil's eyes brightened. "Gwen, now that you know where he comes from, you should look to him as an example. If he can go as far as he has on his merits, surely, you can too! We just have to wait for the right opportunity. I really do think Mr. Bromage will respond positively."

"You know, it's funny," Gwen said with a soft laugh. "I do believe Mr. Branson said as much to me when he was helping me prepare for being interviewed. I had told him that I wished I knew someone who had gone from the working class to the middle class, and he offered himself as an example. I thought that he was just being kind, not that he actually meant he himself was a working-class person."

Sybil smiled. "I know we English tend to ascribe certain qualities and sensibilities to our birth, but the truth is, Gwen, Tom really does represent the idea that respectability and a good position is something that one can earn not just be born with."

"Whatever happens with me, it is nice to know that that's possible," Gwen said in response. After a moment's thought, she added, "As to his mother, well, I believe things may be a bit awkward at the start, but eventually people will come around."

* * *

As Sybil and Gwen chatted upstairs, the staff started making their way to the attic to bed. Daisy, who had been organizing the pantry to make everything easier for Mrs. Branson to find, was heading out of the kitchen, when Mrs. Patmore grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back into the pantry to ask her to make sure the family didn't enjoy Mrs. Branson's food too much. Daisy's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You want me to spoil things?" She asked, her eyes widening.

"I'm not saying poison them. Just make sure they don't find her food all that agreeable."

"By poisoning it?"

Mrs. Patmore looked around in case anyone was still around to hear. "Will you stop that!" She urged.

"You don't want it to taste nice?" Daisy asked again, not quite believing what Mrs. Patmore was asking.

"I want them to be glad when I get back. That's all."

Daisy nodded nervously, then walked away hoping that Mrs. Patmore wouldn't call her back to give her more of that kind of instruction.

Mrs. Patmore sighed, knowing that what she was asking was foolish, but even now, she didn't want to take any chances. What else was she supposed to do? If she had to leave Downton, where would she go?

* * *

In another kitchen, not so far away, another set of servants was discussing what life would be like for them in the coming week.

"So it's just luncheon and dinner, then?" Moseley asked Claire.

"Yes. Mrs. Crawley thought at first, they might ask me to stay so I'd be up early for breakfast, but apparently, they believe the kitchen maid can handle that."

"That's Daisy," Ivy put in. "I talked with her at the servants ball and I've seen her out and about in the village. She's nice, though Alfred says Mrs. Patmore abuses her a bit. Nothing terrible, mind. Just a bit too cross with her now and again."

"Fears for her job, I'd wager," Moseley said.

"And what did Alfred say, just now," Claire said raising her eyebrows at Ivy. "Not like him to come by so late in the evening—and I think I'd prefer if he keeps his visits to when the sun's out."

Ivy blushed. "Oh, it was nothing. They were told about you being Mr. Branson's mum tonight is all and he wanted to know why I'd not told him before."

"And what did you say?" Asked Claire, curious about this. She'd never had an explicit conversation with Ivy about anything beyond asking to be called by her maiden name when she was out, knowing that Isobel had made things more or less clear with her.

"I told him it wasn't his business. Just 'cause he's my sweetheart doesn't mean I've to tell him everything."

Moseley laughed softly. "And what did he say to that?"

"He grumbled a bit, of course, but conceded I had a point. He just wondered why all the secrecy, since Mr. Branson always struck him as a bit proud—in a good way, y'know. Alfred likes Mr. Branson very much. Mr. Branson chats him up when he's serving and likes the idea of Alfred being a chef one day even though Alfred's mum frowns on it. Anyway, they're all a bit worked up about the whole thing, knowing Mr. Branson's roots and all now. And they might be a bit cagey tomorrow, but Alfred reckons that'll pass. They're a nice lot, really. He wanted me to tell you that, Mrs. Branson, so you were prepared."

Claire smiled. "That was kind of him, but do mind what I said. Or do you want me telling your parents in my next letter?"

Ivy's brow furrowed. "All right. It's been just the once, though, and it's bad enough mum still wishes I'd be rid of him. In her mind a proper housekeeper, as she intends me to be, has got no husband."

"Well, if you can find a house that'll let a man serve as cook, as is his wish," Moseley said, "then perhaps they'll also let him marry the housekeeper."

Claire laughed, as she watched Ivy blush at Moseley's mention of the word "marriage." Ivy had been smitten with Alfred from their first dance at the servants ball, and he had been a constant companion since. Claire thought he was nice-looking, though a bit lanky, and a bit of an odd young man, for one in service, with his interest in cooking. But he was always respectful and never resented being accompanied by Moseley on his outings with Ivy. Claire understood Ivy's mother's hopes and fears for her daughter, but she secretly believed that if and when Mrs. Smith came to meet Alfred, she would like him, just as Claire did. Claire hadn't engaged him very much when he came round, but only not to put him in an awkward position if he ever found out she was Tom's mother. That was a moot point now, and so Claire looked forward to having at least one ally in the big house.

Claire set to pour herself a bit more tea, when Ivy stood to go to bed.

"It'll be quite a day tomorrow," Ivy said. "What time will you be off?"

"Nine o'clock on the dot," Claire answered. "And I'll likely be there all day, getting to know the space. You have everything you need for luncheon for yourself and Mr. Moseley."

"Very well, Mrs. Branson, good night," Ivy said, curtseying slightly and the was off.

Claire, still holding the teapot, raised it slightly toward Moseley and he nodded.

"She's a good girl," he said as Mrs. Branson poured.

"She is. Her parents were a bit hard on her. I think the separation's done her some good. She'll be ready to run her own house soon enough."

"Or go on to work at Downton, if they've need of a new housemaid after Lady Sybil gets Miss Dawson a position somewhere," Moseley said.

Claire smiled at the mention of Sybil. She looked up again at Moseley and narrowed her eyes a bit. "Did you ever get a hankering to work at one of them big houses, Mr. Moseley?"

"I was a footman at Rosings in Devonshire. Staff of thirty-five, all counted, serving a family of four—the mistress was quite particular."

"Golly. And did you enjoy it?"

Moseley scratched his head. "Not especially. I started out as a hallboy in the home where my father was butler, you see, and had got quite used to being favored among the staff. The work at Rosings was not difficult, but I missed my family, and it was very easy to get lost in the crowd, as it were. I didn't stay long. Went back to London and stayed working there until just a few years ago."

"What brought you north?"

"I started looking for a post in Yorkshire when my mother passed and my father came to live out his days here, where he'd grown up. That was . . . can it have been seven years ago? So not just a _few_ years ago, I suppose." Moseley laughed, softly. "Bounced around a bit with some of these estates round here getting shut down. I still find it a bit of a miracle that Downton survived."

Claire smiled. "Well, Tommy, with his populism doesn't like having had a hand in it, but he and Mr. Matthew are enjoying the challenge, I believe."

"They truly are unlike any men I've worked for—it cannot be simply their age, can it? Are all young men so . . . "

"Restless?"

"I was going to say eager," Moseley said with a laugh. "Sometimes, I still can't believe it'll almost be a year soon. Did you ever expect this is where you'd end up?"

Claire laughed. "Oh, Mr. Moseley, with the turns my life has taken, I've learned from the good Lord never to expect anything."

Moseley laughed. He enjoyed Mrs. Branson's company. She was only a handful of years older than he, but a healthy woman who clearly enjoyed her work. Tomorrow she'd be cooking at Downton for the first time, and Moseley wondered whether in some future, when Matthew took his place as earl, that's where they both would be.

* * *

The following morning, once breakfast had been served and cleared and Ivy left with instructions for the day, Moseley and Claire took off for Downton Abbey. Tom had offered to be the one who escorted her—he'd be going later anyway, to give Pratt a hand with one of the motors, which was giving him trouble—but Claire insisted that while there, she be _only_ the cook and not his mother as well. The line between upstairs and down that did not exist at Crawley House had to be respected at Downton, she'd told him, out of respect for the family.

"They are doing something kind for Mrs. Patmore," she'd said. "Let's not go in there and make a fuss."

"But I like making a fuss," Tom replied, cheekily.

"I'm perfectly aware of your proclivities for rabble-rousin'—you certainly don't need help from me to do it."

It was a bright, clear day, and Claire found the walk a rare, invigorating treat. Once they'd passed the gates, as they approached the house, she noticed Moseley slowing his pace a bit.

Smiling, she looked at him from the side of his eyes. "Nervous, are you, Mr. Moseley, because it does us no good to dally."

Moseley smiled back. "Just allowing you some time to admire the view."

It couldn't be denied. It was a beautiful place. Tom might have objections to the life that such a building represented, but in this moment, Claire could only see the bigness of it as a measure of her son's work with Matthew and by extension her pride in him. It had only been a year, but she knew how much they had done to get the estate and the village thriving again. Both Moseley and Ivy had told her that in the village "the young gentlemen," as the pair had come to be known, were much admired for having brought the family back and gotten the farms up and running again.

As they neared the entrance at the back, Claire saw two figures standing outside smoking, a footman and lady's maid, she guessed, by the livery they wore. They all knew Moseley, so there was no doubt in her mind that they knew who she was, but as she was not expecting a particularly warm welcome, she was not surprised when neither of them smiled or made any move to greet them. Moseley stepped forward and opened the door for her. The servants hall was mostly empty, but there was some activity in the kitchen, so they went straight there. Mrs. Patmore, already in her traveling clothes, was giving the girl Claire guessed was the kitchen maid some anxious instruction.

Moseley nodded to Claire to enter without him and smiled encouragingly.

"Here goes nothin'," she whispered to him, then walked through directly to Mrs. Patmore.

The latter, seeing her enter, straightened up quickly and—to Claire's internal amusement—set her shoulders back and lifted her nose.

"Mrs. Branson, I presume."

Claire stuck her hand out. "Claire Branson, very pleased to meet you Mrs. Patmore."

Mrs. Patmore looked down at Claire's hand, as if taken aback by the gesture, but quickly wiped her hands and shook. Claire momentarily recalled what Tom had told her about the Dowager Countess's response to Isobel's desire to shake hands and thought this must be the downstairs equivalent, but the truth was Mrs. Patmore was not used to being greeted in such a way. Claire turned to Daisy, who'd been looking back and forth between the two women, wondering just how they'd get on, knowing what she knew about Mrs. Patmore's lingering fears regarding her position—and the role she was being forced to play to ease those fears.

"You must be Daisy," Claire said, moving to shake her hand as well. "Ivy's told me about you. I look forward to working with you."

Daisy shook with a small smile, but as soon as her eyes landed on Mrs. Patmore again, she could see that the Crawley House's cook's kind words had set Mrs. Patmore to worrying again. Mrs. Patmore took a breath and in a condescending tone Daisy was very familiar with said, "I expect it'll be hard adjusting to this kitchen after the one you're used to."

Claire's shoulders tightened slightly, but she would not be put out, not after just walking in the door. So affecting as much calm as she could but eager to show she was not one to be pushed about, she answered, "Not to worry, I'm sure I can have it cleaned up in no time."

"Cleaned up?" Mrs. Patmore said, her brow furrowing in annoyance.

"I'm not criticising. With your eyesight, it's a wonder you could see the pots at all."

Daisy was never more relieved to see Mrs. Hughes. A manager of servants for many years, it took Elsie no time at all to see the tension between the two women. This was not how she was hoping it would start. Knowing Mrs. Patmore's character as she did, Mrs. Hughes had been hoping to make the introduction herself, but had been delayed upstairs.

"Mrs. Branson," she said, approaching quickly. "I'm sorry to have missed your arrival."

"Not to worry . . ."

"Elsie Hughes. I am the housekeeper here."

"Of course," Claire said. "We've only just come in." Claire turned to see Moseley, standing at the window looking in from the hallway.

"You'll have met Daisy and the others?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"I have, though what they all find to do is a bit of a mystery to me," Claire said looking around.

"Are you not used to managing staff, Mrs. Branson?" Mrs. Patmore asked, challengingly.

Claire took a breath to remind herself—again—that there was no reason to push anyone's buttons. If she ever wondered where her son got his rabble-rousing instincts, here was her proof.

"I'm used to getting it done with one kitchen maid, Mrs. Patmore," she said in what she hoped was a calming, conciliatory tone. "But I suppose in a house like this, you expect . . . well, things are different here, aren't they?"

"They are," Mrs. Patmore answered curtly.

"Why don't you go upstairs and finish getting your things together, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes put in quickly. "I'm sure things are well in hand here."

"All right then," Mrs. Patmore said and made her way out, keeping her eyes on Claire for as long as she could.

Mrs. Hughes watched her go, then looked back to Claire. "She's just feeling some nerves is all. Daisy, why don't you show Mrs. Branson where she can put her things."

Daisy moved toward the cupboard and gestured for Claire to follow.

Mrs. Hughes stepped back out into the hall and took a deep breath. Seeing Moseley, she smiled. "That went about as well as I was expecting."

Moseley chuckled. "She's all right, Mrs. Branson. She's more of a general than a trooper, but you need that in a cook."

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. "Well, Mrs. Patmore's the Generalissimo."

* * *

Later that day, after Claire had more or less settled in, made luncheon without too many setbacks and enjoyed a quiet meal with Daisy and the scullery maids in the kitchen, she set about getting to really know the kitchen and surveying the stores. She wanted this dinner to be something that would make Isobel, Matthew and Tom all proud. For the most part, the rest of the staff—save the girls with whom she had to work directly—had stayed out of her way, and that was just as she'd wanted it. Tom, she presumed, was already on the premises, working in the garage with Mr. Pratt, having told her he'd come in the early afternoon. So far, he had not violated her orders and tried to sneak in to see her, and that was just as she'd wanted it as well. If the staff had not made too much noise about Claire on that particular day, it might have been attributable to another arrival—the telephone. In fact, as Claire worked in the kitchen that morning, Mr. Bromidge and the young men assisting him had put in one such device in Mr. Carson's pantry. In the afternoon, the men were upstairs in the outer hall.

That was where Sybil found Mr. Bromidge to ask after Gwen's application.

Approaching him carefully, she said, "Carson said you were here."

"Ah, just, er, checking that everything's being done right, milady," he said kindly.

"Only we never heard back," she said. "That is, Miss Dawson never heard back from you . . . about an interview?"

Mr. Bromidge moved to walk around his assistant and Sybil followed him as he spoke. "Ah, yes, we—we got the young lady's letter. But the trouble is, she didn't have any experience of hard work that I could tell, so . . ."

"Oh, but she's a very hard worker!" Sybil said eagerly.

"I couldn't find any proof of it. And she gave you as a reference when you don't run a business, milady. Well, not that I'm aware of."

Hearing someone pass through the hall, Sybil turned. "Lily! Can you find Gwen and tell her to come to the hall, now."

"Yes, milady," the housemaid answered.

Sybil turned again toward Mr. Bromidge, taking a step forward. "The reason Gwen didn't give any more details is because she works here. As a housemaid."

The man smiled, leaning back on his heels. "Ah, and you thought that'd put me off?"

"But she's taken a postal course and has good speeds in typing and Pittman shorthand. Test her."

"I will if I like the look of her," Mr. Bromidge said.

At just that moment, Gwen ran in, stopping herself just short when she saw Sybil with Mr. Bromidge. She'd seen him working downstairs earlier, but dared not speak to him. She wondered exactly what Sybil had said, but could not reasonably ask her now.

"Ah, so, young lady, you thought I'd turn up my nose at a housemaid," he said pointing at his nose with a smile.

"I did, sir," she said, a bit nervously.

"Well, my mother was a housemaid," he said with unmistakable pride. "I've got nothing against housemaids. They know about hard word and long hours, that's for sure."

Whether or not it was his intent, Mr. Bromidge, in his words, offered Gwen all the encouragement and emotional fortitude she needed. She nodded, now eager to say whatever she could to prove her worth. "Well, I believe so, sir."

Turning to Sybil, he asked, "Right, well, is there somewhere we could talk?"

Sybil held back her smile, but gestured to Gwen. "Gwen, take Mr. Bromidge to the library. I'll see no one disturbs you."

"Okay," Gwen responded meekly, walking to the library door just a few feet away.

As they walked through Sybil took a deep breath, hoping against hope that Mr. Bromidge might finally see in her friend all the potential that Sybil saw. Sybil turned back to face the hall and saw her father approaching with the clear intent of going into the library.

She cut him off, before he spoke. "Sorry, Papa, you can't go in there."

"Why on earth not?"

"Gwen's in there with Mr. Bromidge. She's being interviewed."

Robert raised his eyebrows. "I cannot use my library because one of the housemaids is in there applying for another job?"

Sybil shrugged slightly. "That's about the size of it."

Robert narrowed his eyes in annoyance at his young daughter, and with a deep sigh and walked away.

Sybil remained standing guard for about twenty minutes. When Mr. Bromidge and Gwen emerged, Sybil was happy to see Gwen smiling.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Dawson," Mr. Bromidge said with a slight bow. "Now, I best make sure these lads are doing their work properly. You'll be notified as to the decision in a few days."

"Thank _you_ so much, Mr. Bromidge," Sybil said, taking his hand and shaking it with both of hers.

He smiled and walked away.

Sybil took Gwen by the arm and pulled her back into the library, closing the door behind them.

"So? How was it? He seemed very pleased!"

Gwen smiled, wringing her hands a bit, trying to contain her excitement. "I think it was all right. I answered the questions. He said he was impressed by what I'd learned from my course. It was the best interview yet, but I don't dare get my hopes up."

Sybil took her hands. "Oh, Gwen you are so much more sensible than me," she said with a laugh. "How can I _not_ hope!? What shall we do until he reponds!?"

Gwen laughed. "Beggin' your pardon, milady, but I best get back to work."

"Of course, you must. How perfectly silly of me."

"It's all right, milady," she said, squeezing Sybil's hands before letting them go. "I don't know what will happen with this, but I am truly grateful for all your help. If nothing else, it was nice to hear what I do valued by someone in another line of work."

Sybil smiled warmly. "I'm so glad, but I do feel like the best is yet to come."

Gwen smiled back and moved toward the door. "What will you do this afternoon?"

"I think I might go for a walk."

"Will you go see Mr. Branson in the garage?"

Sybil's eyes brightened. "Is he helping Pratt today? I thought that wouldn't be until the weekend."

"I do believe he's there. I heard one of the hallboys say he was, not one hour ago."

"Well, he might like to hear how well things went for you," Sybil said.

Gwen grinned, but did not say what she was thinking, which was that Tom would probably enjoy hearing anything that came out of Sybil's mouth.

Sybil followed Gwen out of the library and proceeded out the door of the house toward the garage. As she stepped in, she could see his now familiar form laying down beneath one of the motors. She looked around and saw no sign of Pratt and was happy to have at least a moment alone with him. She approached the motor and watched with a smile as he hopped up from beneath, as quickly and sprightly as he had done on the day they'd first met. He was in his shirtsleeves now too.

When they locked eyes, Sybil went back to that moment in her mind and she was momentarily left speechless by a well of emotion that surged in her as she thought about how much could change in one year's time. Sybil had blushed on seeing him for the first time, but that was the effect of a lingering girlishness in her, one embarrassed by the effect of looking into a handsome face. Sybil was blushing again now, but it was different this time. This was love. A woman's love. One that was built on friendship and mutual admiration and dreams of future adventures away from a life that she now knew confined her as tightly as the strings of an unforgiving corset. And this was passion, a passion that was bursting at the seams and begging to be released.

Sybil took a deep breath. Clearing her throat, and looking down at the motor beneath which he'd just been working, she said, "I wish I knew how an engine worked."

"I could teach you if you like?" Tom said warmly.

Sybil smiled sheepishly. "That's Edith's territory."

"Don't be silly," he said taking her hand and pulling her over to stand directly in front of where the motor's bonnet was up.

"Where's Pratt?" She asked.

"I've sent him to the local mechanic for a part," Tom said, putting his hands in his pockets. "I thought he could use the walk, to be honest. He's a bit overworked."

"You've said that before."

"With each of you having your own set of affairs in the village and the county, it seems he barely has time to eat or sleep. I'd mentioned the idea of hiring a second chauffeur to Robert recently, but he's unlikely to take my advice now."

"Would you like me to ask him?"

Tom smiled. "He'll still know the idea came from me, and anyway, I've actually had a better idea."

"What's that?" Sybil asked.

"Train up Joseph as an apprentice for the post," Tom said.

"The hallboy?"

"Pratt says he's keen on cars, comes in here all the time to help wash them. He's the right age to start learning a trade, and it'll give him options as to a career beyond service if he wanted."

Sybil's eyes popped open and she grabbed onto his arms. "Oh, Tom! Speaking of careers, how could I have forgotten in the span of minutes! Gwen!"

"What about her? Has she found a job?" He asked excitedly.

"Well, not quite, but she was interviewed by Mr. Bromidge here in the library just now. He seemed rather taken with her. She said it was her best interview yet."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Though I should say we did err in omitting her work as a maid in the original application."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Bromidge is himself the son of a maid and thought the job spoke well of Gwen's capacity for hard work. So you see, not everyone dislikes servants."

Tom smiled. "I'm very happy to have been wrong on that score."

He looked down and noticed that Sybil's hands had slid from his arms into his hands, which had come out of his pockets to grab hold of hers, but he made no move to let them go. He looked to the motor, on his left, and then back to Sybil.

"Perhaps you don't remember, but we are standing quite like we were when we first met."

Sybil smiled and squeezed his hands. "How could you think I don't remember?"

Tom smile faded slightly, and Sybil's felt her heart begin to race.

"Actually, this isn't quite how it was," he said, his voice sounding to Sybil quite unlike it had ever sounded before.

"No?"

Tom shook his head and took a step closer until their faces were only inches apart. "It was more like this," he whispered. "Because I remember thinking, 'If I bend down just a bit, I could kiss her.' "

Sybil cleared her throat. "Yes," she squeaked out.

"Yes, what?" He whispered back.

"Yes, you may kiss me—"

The word had barely left her lips when they were covered with his.

And just like that they were in heaven.

Sybil's hands slid back up his arms and chest and around his neck, while his arms wound around her small waist lifting her onto the tips of her toes. Their mouths opened almost immediately, deepening the contact and giving them each the first actual taste of what they'd longer for for so long now. Sybil grabbed onto whatever piece of him she could, wondering if she could pull him into her if she tried hard enough. Tom angled his head slightly and brought his right hand to the back of her head, making the kiss deeper still, wanting to drown himself in her.

After several minutes, they finally pulled away, but only slightly, their foreheads leaning against each other and their breaths mingling as they each struggled for air.

"Tom?" She asked, with what sounded to him like laughter in her voice.

"Yes?"

"Why did we wait so long to do that?"

Tom laughed, a laughter that bubbled out of him like the love he felt was gushing from his very pores, and said, "Oh, my darling. I don't know."

And they kissed again. And again. And again.


	30. Claire Branson Against the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up on the evening of the day we left off. I know that things are sailing smoothly for Sybil and Tom right now, but life will get in their way several times before they can truly be together and married, so even though they've kissed and all but declared their love for one another, don't expect a wedding anytime soon ;)
> 
> Lastly, this chapter takes place primarily in the downstairs world, but there's a moment involving Tom inspired by a scene from the movie Atonement (no, not the sex against the shelf) as well as a line taken from the movie/book. The dishes mentioned are taken from different Downton Abbey-inspired menus that I found online.

Following her interview with Mr. Bromidge, Gwen went on with her duties until it was time for tea. After making her way back downstairs, as she walked through the servants hall, her eyes happened to catch the brand new telephone sitting in Mr. Carson's pantry and she stopped short. She was eager for the job with Mr. Bromidge primarily because she wanted to be a secretary—not because she had any idea how telephones actually worked, though she did express to him a keen interest in learning about them. Seeing the device up close, she was both marveled and baffled by it. Not to mention intimidated. It was, in every respect, a symbol of modernity. If her father had been with her, and she'd tried to explain the telephone's function to him, he'd be no more interested in it than he would in the idea that she could be something other than what she had been born.

Looking around the hall, Gwen saw that it was still mostly empty. Despite the breach in protocol—a housemaid going into the office of a butler—Gwen's curiosity got the better of her and she stepped in. She smiled as she approached the device. The speed of the communication it allowed dispensed with so much of the formality and custom that Mr. Carson treasured, but even so, beholding it now, Gwen thought there was a dignified, almost regal quality to it.

She had just reached out to touch it when she heard Alfred come up behind her, with Daisy on his heels, their curiosity about the new device piqued as well.

"Funny looking thing, don't you think?" Alfred said.

"I suppose, but it serves its purpose," was Gwen's reply.

"Who do you call?" Alfred asked. "No one you know has got one."

"But they will have. You'll see."

Before Alfred could say anything else, Carson startled them with his booming voice, dripping with irritation.

"Might I inquire why my pantry has become a common room?"

"Sorry, Mr. Carson," Alfred said, "but . . . do you know how it works?"

"Of course I do," Carson replied.

"Will you show us?" Daisy asked eagerly.

Her question was met with a quick reply. "Certainly not!" Carson exclaimed. "A telephone is not a toy, but a useful and valuable tool. Now, get back to your work."

"But it's tea time, Mr. Carson," Alfred said.

Carson's eyes widened in silent reprimand and the three young people scurried out quickly. The butler straightened up and pulled down on his jacket before turning back to his desk and the telephone sitting atop it. He leaned over it for a moment before picking up the earpiece with his hand and blowing into it. He set the earpiece back down, then after a moment picked up both the earpiece and the mouthpiece, bringing the former to his ear and the latter to his lips. Mr. Bromidge had, in fact, explained to Carson how to use the device, but it was one thing to hear the instructions and quite another to put them into practice.

After standing there silently for a moment, Carson finally spoke, "Hello, this is Downton Abbey. Carson, the butler, speaking."

He set the telephone back down but picked it up again almost immediately, reconsidering his words. "Hello. This is Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey. To whom am I speaking?"

Having never used the device before, Carson was not expecting to hear the operator's voice when it came through, and he dropped the earpiece in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir, but there's no need to shout!" were the terse words Carson heard.

"I'm not shouting!" He exclaimed. "Who are you?"

"Mrs. Gaunt," the operated replied.

"Oh, Mrs Gaunt."

"With whom shall I connect you?" she asked politely.

"No, I don't want to place a call," Carson said.

"Well, then why in heaven's name are you talking into the telephone?"

"I was practicing my answer."

"Seems like a rather stupid thing to do, if you ask me, tying up the lines when others have actual business to get on with."

Her tone did not put her—or the device—into Carson's good graces. "Well, I dare say a lot of the things _you_ do sound stupid to other people!"

Not eager to continue the conversation, Carson hung up the phone and went back out into the servants hall, where Alfred and Gwen did very well in containing their laughter until after Carson was out of earshot.

After they'd calmed a bit, Alfred said, "Sounded like the operator was a bit cheeky with him. She should have known she was speaking to the butler of this house, and been more respectful of his position."

"Don't you see, Alfred," Gwen said. "With modern things like the telephone, position won't matter nearly so much as it did before. And respect will be something all of us have to earn in equal measure. I dare say if Mr. Carson had spoken kindly to her, she'd have been kind in return."

Gwen took a small sip of her tea and realized that despite her best efforts, she had failed in containing her expectations and hopes regarding her job with the telephone company.

She wanted it very, _very_ much.

* * *

Lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, Tom could feel a small bead of sweat that had formed on his chest roll ever so slowly down to the base of his neck. He was wearing his dinner trousers and an undershirt. His hair was still slightly damp from the bath he'd just taken. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Sybil.

As he'd walked back to Crawley House that afternoon, passing the gates and the path that led to the creek where he and Sybil liked to spend time together, he had considered veering off to see whether jumping in the cold water would offer him a measure of release and bring his temperature down to what felt like a normal level. He laughed at the thought, at himself and at the likely futility of the exercise. He knew well, then as now, that if he felt overheated it was not owing to the July weather but the series of intoxicating kisses he and Sybil had shared in the Downton Abbey garage.

Tom closed his eyes again, a small smile forming on his face as he relived each one. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to do it. From the moment Tom realized that he was in love with Sybil and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, he had promised himself that he would not overstep his bounds with her, lest he jeopardize their future and Robert's approval of the match. Tom loathed the rituals by which young aristocratic ladies like Sybil were expected to be "presented" and then sit back meekly and quietly while a panoply of suitors took their pick. In his mind it was not unlike the meat markets where farmers sold off their cattle, and he knew Sybil well enough now to know that she had little patience for such traditions as well. Nevertheless, Tom also knew that unless they were prepared to wait a very long time, the rules needed to be followed, at least in some measure. Without Robert's permission, Sybil would not be allowed to marry until she was 21. Knowing now the taste and softness of her lips . . . well, waiting until her debut a year from now was going to be trying enough.

But seeing her there in the garage and having called to mind the image of their first meeting, the temptation was too much to bear. When she gave him her permission, and with it confirmation that a kiss had been on her mind as well, it was as if a knife had cut the very taut strings that had been holding them both back. Tom couldn't remember how long they had stood kissing in that garage—it might have been five minutes or five hours—but he remembered the fire it lit inside him. He felt it still. He remembered her eyes bright with the sparkle of first love and the tendrils of hair that had fallen around her face, pulled from her bun by his eager fingers. He remembered, too, the blush that came over her cheeks as she reluctantly suggested that she return to the house, lest they be discovered, and the promise to meet in the library after dinner. Pratt did, in fact, return shortly after Sybil's departure, and once the motor had been repaired to Tom's satisfaction, Tom set off, feeling acutely every step of the distance between them.

After the walk back, tea, then a bath, here he was now, counting the minutes—nay, _seconds_ —before he would see her and hold her in his arms and kiss her again. Tonight would be the first dinner that his mother would be preparing for the family in Mrs. Patmore's absence. Under normal circumstances, concern for her would have been at the top of his mind, but not even a declaration of war could have displaced thoughts of Sybil on this day. Sybil was not the first girl Tom had kissed, so the extent to which the act affected him was surprising. What Tom didn't realize now, of course, and wouldn't for some time, was that despite his experience with other women, he had never been in love before meeting Sybil, and when it came to kissing—and every other physical manifestation of love—that made all the difference.

After a while, Tom finally pushed himself off his bed and walked over to his desk in the corner of the room. He sat down and pulled in front of him a stack of papers he'd brought home from the partnership to read over and annotate. After staring at the stack for a long moment, he pushed it away again and took out a blank sheet of paper and a pen and set to writing.

_July 10, 1913_

_My Dearest Sybil,_

_I sit down to write this letter on the afternoon after we shared our first kiss, not with the intention of posting it, but because my mind is so consumed with thoughts of you that I find myself quite unable to function. The truth is I feel rather light-headed and foolish in your presence, Sybil, and I don't think I can blame the heat. I don't know whether writing my thoughts down will help me contain them so I may go on with my day, but I must try. I have a pile of papers I must get to before the day is out. You know well how I treasure my work and my ability to make a living for myself just as I know you long to do the same. And just as I know someday you will._

_Perhaps these lines will reveal me as a more sentimental man than you might have thought me before. The revelation surprises even me. It is but one of the very many ways being at Downton and having you in my life have changed me. This may seem like an odd thing to admit, but for someone who values change and its positive effects on society, I had not considered, before I arrived here, how little of it there had been in my own life and in myself._

_My life in Manchester, so foreign to me now, was a safe one that offered no real challenges and, thus, no rewards. Here, I've been confronted with my own prejudices, I've enjoyed speaking up for my principles in conversations and debates with people and friends who are not of like mind, I've been tasked with putting my words into practice by helping Matthew find a way to keep Downton alive not at the expense of the working people whose efforts sustain it, but to their benefit, and I've come to realize that what I once expected from marriage and love was naive because nothing in my previous life prepared me for how I feel for you._

_What's funny is that I find no satisfaction in having found you, but rather a deeper hunger for the things I've always wanted and the things that I now know you want as well. Like traveling the world and seeing people and cultures beyond the boundaries of my own small life, helping others understand the value of a just and equal society, fighting for the day you may cast a vote, and—this is more personal to me than it is to you—seeing my father's dream of a free Ireland come to pass. I want it all more now because I will be sharing it, delighting in it, with someone who will be not just a wife, but my best friend and partner. That is the life that I hope for, one full of hope and adventure and fun. A life, my darling Sybil, that would be as worthy of you as I shall always strive to be._

_Yours with deepest affection, T. Branson_

Tom set his pen down and smiled as he looked over the letter. He folded it up, stuffed it into an envelope and carefully wrote out, _Lady Sybil Crawley, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire_. He smiled again as he picked up the envelope and ran his thumb over her name. Finally, he opened the top drawer of his desk and pushed the letter into the back corner. He closed the drawer and sat back in his chair with a deep sigh. A year was a long time to wait, but it was nothing compared with the lifetime they had to look forward to.

_For now, God knows, it's enough that I can kiss her._

It would not be that day, nor that month, nor that year, but eventually Sybil would read the letter, and when she did, she would think about how she'd left the garage to go straight to her room to write in her diary about how much she was looking forward to a life much like Tom had described it.

* * *

By the third time Carson walked past the kitchen, Claire was so exasperated by his and Mrs. Hughes' hovering—and by what she saw as intentionally sloppy work by Daisy—that she yelled out to all the maids with her in the kitchen, "Pray tell, girls, do the butler and housekeeper of this house ever leave the cook alone to do her job?"

Daisy, who was running around the kitchen table placing the first course (oysters with champagne vinegar mignonette) on the serving dishes, was startled by the tone and volume and looked at Claire wide-eyed. Instinctively, her hand went to the apron pocket where she'd hidden the soap shavings she intended to drop in the soup. "Wh-what?" She said nervously, sure that the scheme was written all over her face.

"Mind that you set those oysters down so they don't slip," Claire said, narrowing her eyes at the young woman. After a moment, Claire sighed and set her attention back on the cut of venison in front of her.

Carson had heard her yell, though, and a moment later walked into the kitchen with a stern look on his face. "Is there a problem, Mrs. Branson?"

Claire's guard was up immediately once again. "I'm wondering that, myself, Mr. Carson. You seem rather preoccupied with me. If there's a problem let's have it out now so I can get on with dinner."

Her directness surprised him. "As butler, I am perfectly within my rights to see that any meal is being prepared in the manner that befits this house."

Claire took a deep breath. "Do you see anything going amiss that you can tell? I mean other than me having to look over this silly girl's shoulder all the time?"

Daisy gasped loudly, but was ignored as Carson looked around. He had little to comment on, of course, having no real grasp as to how the kitchen was run, but made a bit of a show of inspecting things closely. "Everything looks well in hand here," he said finally.

"Good," Claire replied. "Now, if you please, send those boys in here so they can take the oysters up before the sauce gets overly warm, I'd appreciate it. It's best served fresh off the ice, you see, and I'll not have the lot upstairs think things are not up to par on my account."

Carson stiffened but said nothing else. He turned and barked out orders to Thomas and Alfred, who came in quickly to take the trays. Carson followed them out to serve the wine, doing so without turning back around so he missed Claire rolling her eyes at him.

After he'd gone, Claire walked out into the servants hall, where Ivy and Moseley, having arrived with the rest of the family, were waiting for the servants' dinner, which would begin after the family had moved on to the drawing room. Claire walked over to Ivy and said, "My dear, I know you didn't come here to work, but would you mind terribly giving me a hand."

Ivy smiled brightly and said "Of course, Mrs. Branson."

"Is everything all right?" Moseley asked with concern as Ivy stood to follow Claire.

"Let's hope so," Claire said cryptically. She suspected that Daisy—and perhaps even Mr. Carson himself—was trying to sabotage her, but Claire wasn't going to deal with that just now.

Claire and Ivy walked back to the kitchen. Before Ivy went over to the pantry to fetch an apron, Claire grabbed her by the elbow. "I want you to pour half the soup into a different pot and put it in back of the stove and out of sight. When the footmen are ready for it, serve it yourself, but let Daisy think that the first pot's what's going upstairs."

Ivy looked at Claire with confusion in her expression. "But why?"

"Just do as I say. I'll explain later."

Ivy nodded and did as she was told.

Upstairs, when the footmen made it to the dining room, Alfred took care to go to the side of the table Tom was sitting on. Tom smiled seeing him and as he turned to serve himself from the tray Alfred held out, Tom asked quietly, "Has she killed anyone yet?"

"No, sir," Alfred replied with a smile. "Just gave Mr. Carson a good talking to, though. I believe it's still smarting a bit."

Tom followed Alfred's eyes to where Carson had just stepped into the room with the decanter of wine, and sure enough Tom could see an even firmer expression on Carson's countenance than usual.

"Tell her I said to go easy on him and everyone else," Tom whispered to Alfred as he stood to move on to Violet, who was too busy bemoaning the house's latest foray into modern life to have noticed the exchange.

"First electricity, now telephones," she said with a sigh. "Sometimes I feel as if I were living in an H.G. Wells novel. But the young are all so calm about change, aren't they?"

"If we're calm it's because we know there is nothing to fear, granny," Sybil said, on the other side of Violet.

At first both Sybil and Tom had been disappointed that they were sitting on the same side of the table, in positions that did not allow them to look directly at one another across it, but after a while, Sybil believed it to be for the best. Such was the blush that had come over her features upon his arrival that she was afraid everyone would see the truth of what they'd done written all over her face. She did not consider their kisses the kind of illicit activity that would cause a true scandal, but she wanted to keep the progression of their relationship a secret at least for now, to enjoy it without the bother of her mother's interference, the teasing of her sisters or the false indignation of her father. It saddened Sybil to know that had the truth of Tom's parentage never been discovered, her parents—so fond of Tom previously—might have welcomed news of their attachment happily and eagerly. Still, she was proud of who he had made himself to be and couldn't deny that she preferred that her family know the real man she loved, rather than a false impression—even if it meant they'd have to wait to be together properly.

Sybil was brought out of her revery by her grandmother, who made a satisfied noise upon tasting her hors d'oeuvres.

"You know, my dears, I may be reluctant to accept change, but I rather enjoy it come dinner time."

Tom and Isobel exchanged glances, happy that the most discriminating palate at the table had opened the meal with a welcoming outlook.

* * *

Upstairs, dinner came and went without incident. Downstairs, Claire and Ivy did their level best to serve a meal twice as complicated and for three times as many people as they were used to while working around the rest of the staff and doing so without it seeming as if they were. With Carson busy serving, Mrs. Hughes continued to pace the hall to peek in at their progress. The housekeeper could see that something between Claire and the Downton kitchen staff was amiss. But once the meal was underway, Claire had no time to stop and ask the housekeeper to mind her business.

Upstairs, once dessert was cleared (meringue nests with roasted rhubarb and raspberry sauce), the ladies proceeded to the drawing room.

As they were getting settled, Carson turned to Thomas. "Alfred and I can manage here now. Go and tell Mrs. Branson we'll have our dinner in twenty minutes."

Cora, who was the last to enter, walked over to him before sitting down. "Carson, be sure to say to Mrs. Branson the dinner was really delicious. His lordship, I believe, found the gingered quail especially pleasing. It would be nice if Mrs. Patmore could copy the recipe when she returns."

"Very well, milady," Carson said, nodding, proud that the meal had gone over so well.

After about 15 minutes, once the ladies had all been served their wine or cordial (and Sybil had excused herself), Carson sent Alfred back to the dining room to clear any remaining service items that had been left on the table. Finding none, Alfred proceeded back through the front hall as was his habit. Walking by the library he heard people talking and leaned his head in to quietly check whether they might be in need of anything. He was surprised by the sight of Sybil and Tom sitting on the sofa facing away from the door. They were only talking but theirs heads were leaning into one another, revealing a level of intimacy that Alfred, still a young man, was only able to recognize because he, too, was in love. He smiled at the sight, and as quietly as possible, he pulled the door shut so the two young lovers would not be caught unawares by anyone else.

But, alas, Alfred did not go undetected.

As he closed the door, Sybil turned her head quickly toward the door, then back to Tom, asking, "Did you hear something?"

"I think was Alfred."

A worried expression came over Sybil's face. "Do you think he'll tell Carson? If he does, Carson's sure to tell papa!"

Tom laughed. "He won't say anything."

"How can you be so sure?" She asked, skeptical.

"Alfred is something of a romantic, I believe."

"How so?"

"Well, he's been sweet on Ivy since they met and rather persistent about the whole thing. I'm confident he wouldn't give us away, but honestly what would there be to report except that he saw you and me in the library talking."

"We weren't just talking a minute ago," Sybil said with a blush coming over her cheeks.

"Lucky for us, he missed that, didn't he," he said leaning in, Sybil eagerly meeting his lips half way. After a few seconds, she pulled away and whispered, "Perhaps we should stop, lest someone else happen by."

Tom smiled. "He closed the door, so we'd hear anyone coming."

Sybil laughed. "So Alfred has a spot in his heart for romance?"

"Indeed. And he wants to be a cook."

"Really? That's a bit odd."

"An unusual inclination, sure, but the way Ivy tells it he has rather a knack for it. She says Mrs. Patmore sends him to the village regularly to buy spices for the kitchen here."

"How extraordinary! But why doesn't he give it a real go? Why work here as footman?"

Tom smiled. "His parents, and Miss O'Brien hope he'll be a butler." After a moment, he added, "Not all of us are built to live out the hopes of our fathers."

Sybil smiled ruefully. "A truth I'm afraid I know too well."

Tom brought his hand up to her face and Sybil leaned into in. She narrowed her eyes at him and asked quietly, "Do you ever think about what your father would have hoped for you?"

He dropped his hand with a sigh and Sybil caught it and held it in her own. "Too often," he said with a sad smile.

"Do you mind if I ask . . . how he died?"

"Officially, it was an accident at work, but mam and the family have always believed the owner of the mill where he worked got him 'taken care of' for trying to organize the workers there."

Sybil squeezed his hand. "Heavens! Oh, Tom, that's horrible!"

Tom looked away and shrugged, but Sybil could see that thinking about it affected him.

"I'm sure he'd be proud of the man you've become," she said quietly. After a moment, she added, "This is a terribly selfish thing to say, but in spite of the difficulties that brought you and your mother to England and to this point, well . . . I'm glad you're here."

Tom chuckled. "You think if he'd lived, you and I wouldn't be here right now?"

"I would be here," she said rolling her eyes. "Even in an alternate universe, I suspect the realities of life at Downton would remain reliably predictable."

"Oh, I think I'd be here as well," he said with a wink.

"How do you figure?" Sybil asked, smiling.

"Don't you remember me saying that if I'd had to enter into service, I'd have been a chauffeur? I'd likely have come to England to find work. Your father would have been charmed by my political interests, in spite of himself and would have offered me a post. I'd have met you and immediately resolved to make you to fall in love with me."

"And I would have happily done so," Sybil said leaning into him again, "but only after deliberating for a good long time."

"Far longer than necessary," Tom said as he captured her lips in a kiss once again.

When Sybil pulled away, she said with a laugh. "We should both be glad this version of me was easier to convince."

* * *

After having seen Tom and Sybil in the library, Alfred had returned to the servants hall, where the staff had begun to gather as Daisy set the table for their dinner.

Not seeing Ivy, he wandered over to the kitchen and, sure enough, there she was, looking tired and a bit angry. His brow furrowed, but before Alfred had a chance to step in and ask what was wrong, Carson came down and walked past him into the kitchen himself. Alfred sighed, knowing he would have to wait until after dinner.

For a moment after stepping in, Carson watched Claire, who was at the stove stirring a broth for use in cooking the following day's meals. Carson recognized the exhaustion in her slumped shoulders, but he did not see the frustration that she was also feeling.

Claire had done everything to try and blend in, preparing in the process two of the best meals she had ever made. And, still, the servants at Downton seemed intent on humiliating her. She and Ivy headed off the kitchen maid's efforts, but to Claire at that moment it was abundantly clear that for the remainder of Mrs. Patmore's absence, Carson and Mrs. Hughes were determined to look over her shoulder and catch her in a mistake. Just now, she had heard him enter and her back stiffened, which did not escape his notice. Carson, understanding that at least some of her weariness was owing to his own behavior earlier that evening, spoke with what he hoped was a conciliatory tone.

"I came in to thank you for your efforts today, Mrs. Branson," he said. "I wonder if you'd like to join us for dinner."

Claire turned in shock, but the sincerity was as plain on his face as his comically bushy eyebrows. Claire smiled.

"I don't mind if I do," she answered. She untied her apron, cleaned off her hands with it before hanging it on a hook by the door and followed Carson into the servants' dining area.

Seeing her, a wide-eyed Daisy, who was still setting out the food, said, "I'm not sure Mrs. Patmore would like that, Mr. Carson. Cook always eats separate, that's what she says."

"Not in our house," Moseley said with a smile. "There's only the three of us."

O'Brien arched her brow and said, "That doesn't surprise anyone, Mr. Moseley. I half expected for you to say you all eat upstairs, to be honest, seeing how unconventionally Crawley House is run these days."

Claire, having felt under attack throughout the preparations for dinner, couldn't take it anymore. "You know what, Mr. Carson, I believe Miss O'Brien is right. It would be wrong to steer away from custom just because I am here. I think I'll take my dinner in the kitchen."

Seeing O'Brien's smirk, Claire turned away, but she hadn't made it all the way back to the kitchen, when she heard Mosley behind her and she could feel his jaw tightening even as he spoke.

"I believe I shall take my dinner in the kitchen as well," he said tersely. "Or outside perhaps, but I won't eat here."

Mrs. Hughes, from her position to the right of the head of the table, stood. "Excuse me, Mr. Moseley?

"It seems to be accepted practice at this table to sneer at the honor and character of the people for whom Mrs. Branson, Ivy and I work. Perhaps you are uncomfortable with Mr. Branson's position with the family and feel it necessary to underline your superiority by talking snidely of Dr. Crawley's generosity. Perhaps it's something else altogether. Regardless, I serve Mrs. Crawley and _both_ her sons proudly and would just as soon not dignify any further disrespect to them with my presence. I will say that it disappoints me, Mr. Carson. I expected more from a house run by the likes of you."

"Mr. Moseley," Carson started, chest out as if engaged and ready to defend the reputation Moseley had just insulted. But before Carson could continue, Mrs. Hughes quickly grabbed his arm to stop whatever words were forming in his mouth.

"Mrs. Branson, Mr. Moseley, please, do not mind Miss O'Brien," she said, spitting out the name to make her anger to the lady's maid quite clear. "She along with everyone else has been asked by his lordship himself to mind her manners. I apologize for any offense. Please sit down. Let the kitchen maids have their dinner on their own. You stay with us."

Moseley looked to Claire as if waiting to be guided by her. She let out a sigh and said, "Fine, if you insist." But Claire did make it a point to sit down at the other end of the table, where the more junior members of the staff were, choosing a spot next to Alfred. As soon as she did so, Alfred put his hand over hers, in the hopes she would feel some solidarity.

She did and immediately resolved to support Ivy's interest in him when writing to her parents next.

Before they all tucked in, Carson said, "Her ladyship said to tell you that the dinner was delicious, Mrs. Branson."

Before Claire had a chance to respond, Daisy exclaimed, "She can't have."

Carson immediately turned to Daisy in disbelief. "Daisy? Does that surprise you?"

The look of guilt on Daisy's face was enough for everyone to put down their utensils.

Claire stood immediately. "What have you done with this, you silly girl? I knew it. That's why I said it was for upstairs. Come on! Tell us what's in it!"

With tears already brimming in her eyes, Daisy confessed, "Just . . . water and a bit of soap."

Claire walked over to Daisy and grabbed her by the arm. "And you've put something in the fish sauce as well?"

"Only mustard and aniseed," Daisy answered, wringing her hands.

Realizing why the scenes she spied in the kitchen had troubled her—and why Claire had asked Ivy to help, Mrs. Hughes stood angrily. "Why, Daisy? Why would you do such a thing?!"

As her tears finally spilled over, Daisy gave her answer. "Because Mrs. Patmore was worried that they'd prefer Mrs. Branson's cooking and they wouldn't want her to come back."

Carson rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Is that likely? When they've taken such trouble to get her well?"

"I'm sorry," Daisy said, now sobbing.

Claire let out a laugh, relieved that Daisy's actions were not so sinister as Claire had expected. She loosened her grip on Daisy's arm, pulling her in to offer comfort. "There, there. There are worse crimes on earth than loyalty. Dry your eyes, and fetch the beef stew I was making for tomorrow. You've not had a chance to spoil that, I suppose."

"I was going to mix in some syrup of figs," Daisy said, which set most of the table to laughing.

"But I've not done it yet!" she added.

Thomas laughed. "Well, at least we'd have all been regular."

* * *

Despite the rocky start, once something edible had been served, the downstairs dinner continued without too much more fuss, the tension that had marked the beginning having more or less dissipated by its end.

After, the scullery maids got to cleaning up and started on scrubbing the pots, as Claire made out the following day's menus. That task done, she wrote out a list of tasks for Daisy to start on before she arrived.

Claire watched Daisy wipe the counters absentmindedly, clearly still shaken from what had happened earlier.

"Daisy?"

Daisy turned around, eyes wide. "Y-yes, Mrs. Branson?"

Claire walked over to her and handed her the list. "Be sure that you get started bright and early tomorrow after you've seen to the fires upstairs."

Daisy took the list. "Thank you. I'll do it all perfect, I swear it!"

Claire chuckled. "No need to swear to it, just get it all done."

Daisy smiled and nodded, finally feeling forgiven.

Claire regarded her for a moment, then added, "May I give you some advice, Daisy?"

Daisy's face got serious again. "A-all right."

"My dear, I've no sense of your ambitions, but whatever you are inclined to do with your life, I believe that even people like us have a measure of choice, even if the choices are not all berries and sunshine. So with that in mind, you need to learn to stand up for yourself. The key to being a good servant is the ability to follow orders and do so while keeping your own mind. You do yourself and Mrs. Patmore no favors by following instructions blindly. Do you understand?"

Daisy nodded eagerly. Claire didn't know her well enough to determine whether that meant that the message got through, but she was happy to have said it all in any case.

"All right then," Claire said. "Off to bed with you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Branson. I really am so sorry."

After Daisy had gone, Claire looked around the now empty kitchen and with a sigh walked over to the pantry to get her hat and coat. She was in the process of putting them on when she saw Mrs. Hughes approach her.

"I wonder, Mrs. Branson, if I may have a word with you," the housekeeper said in a tone that was firm but not unkind, as was her usual manner.

Claire was tired and wanted to get home but didn't want to be rude and so followed Mrs. Hughes to her small sitting area next to Carson's pantry.

"I have to admit," Mrs. Hughes began, "that I did not intend to watch over you as you cooked dinner today. I only did because I noticed that you and later you and Ivy seemed not to be working in concert with our own staff and I was concerned. I understand now you were acting on your suspicions of Daisy, and rightly so. I am sorry that you did not feel comfortable enough to come to me. This is a proud lot, I won't deny that, but they are not mean-spirited people as a rule, even Miss O'Brien, I dare say."

Claire let out a laugh, and Mrs. Hughes smiled, silently acknowledging how little water that last statement held.

After a moment, she added, "I do hope you accept our sincerest apologies if you felt slighted in anyway."

Claire smiled. "If I may be honest, Mrs. Hughes, the reason I didn't say anything is because I thought you were all in on it."

Taken aback, Mrs. Hughes asked, "Why you would think such a thing?"

"Isn't it obvious, Mrs. Hughes? I thought you wanted to embarrass me and by extension embarrass my son. I know that the way we live at Crawley House is unorthodox, but I will not have him be made fun of. Not when he doesn't deserve it."

"Neither would I, Mrs. Branson, I assure you. Perhaps this is an unusual thing for a servant to say but I pay little mind to the lives of the people I work for and prefer to keep my attention on getting the job done and done well. Even so, I admire Mr. Branson a great deal. I did so before I knew where he came from, and I do so more now that I know where he is is a result of his hard work and yours and not merely happenstance."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, I do appreciate hearing that."

"I think we are all better off with him up there with the family instead of down here with us, and I include his lordship and his ladyship in that."

Claire smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I would love to stay for a longer chat, but I believe Mr. Pratt is waiting to take Mr. Moseley, Ivy and myself home, and if I don't go now, you're liable to have an Irishwoman fall dead asleep at your feet."

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "At least it'd be a fellow Celt."

* * *

Outside, while Mrs. Branson and Mrs. Hughes were talking, Ivy was sitting at the table just outside the door. Alfred was sitting next to her and had been since she'd come out just after dinner, though neither had said much in that quarter of an hour.

Alfred knew now, of course, that Ivy had been upset because of Daisy's sabotage, but she didn't seem eager to be comforted by him over it.

"It'll be easier tomorrow," he said quietly.

"I've a mind not to come tomorrow," Ivy said, a bit petulantly.

Alfred sighed. "You saw how broken up Daisy was about the whole thing!"

"I also saw her dump the soap into the soup with my own eyes! I thought she was my friend!"

"She was just following Mrs. Patmore's orders. Twisted as it was, she didn't mean any harm by it."

"And what about what your aunt said?!" Ivy said turning to face him for the first time. "Are you going to tell me _she_ didn't mean any harm by insulting Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Branson?"

Alfred could see now that her eyes were wet with tears and that it was his kin's offense that had truly smarted.

"She didn't—"

"Oh, stop it, Alfred! She doesn't believe them worthy of her service, so what do you think she makes of those of us who _do_ work for them?"

"Aunt Sarah's proud, and she's not the softest disposition in the world—"

"I'll say," Ivy cut in, making Alfred laugh, the sound of which broke through her defenses a bit.

She smiled sadly. "She'll poison your parents against me, but that's not even the worst of it."

Alfred's brow furrowed, even as a slight blush came over his cheeks at her admission that she wanted to meet his family. "What do you mean?"

Ivy took a deep breath. "I love working for Mrs. Crawley. So much that I'd hoped to take over for Mrs. Branson when she were ready to retire. Only with Mr. Matthew being heir and all, she'll likely live here eventually, and I've no desire to be a footsoldier. I want to run a house on my own, a small, manageable one. So my plan since we came to Yorkshire has been to offer my services to Mr. Branson when he marries. It's many years off, I'm sure, but he'll pay well and will live simply but with dignity, just as I'd like to. But if your people are going to have a problem with that then—"

"Ivy, do you think _I_ have a problem with Mr. Branson?" Alfred asked with a smile.

Ivy shrugged. "Don't you?"

"No! I like him very much. I've a mind to ask him for a job myself now that you mention it."

Ivy's face brightened immediately. "Really? Oh, Alfred!"

He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. Before pulling away, he whispered into her ear, "And I'll tell you a secret. I think he'll marry sooner than you think."


	31. The Garden Party, 1913, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Violet will level with Cora about Sybil's interest in Tom, and Sybil will confide in Imogen about him. I also touch on Cora's relationship with Edith, which starts to set up Edith's frame of mind when she meets Anthony. One thing to remember regarding Violet is that on the show, of all the people who could have sent Tom and Sybil money to attend Mary's wedding (basically anyone in the family), the one who actually does it is Violet. She talks like a snob, but at the end of the day, family always wins with her. That's what drives how I am writing her in this story.

The procedure on Beryl Patmore's eyes went off without a hitch, and as she rode the train back to Downton wearing the protective glasses she'd been given by the doctor, her heart could not help but beat a little faster, the landscape of Northern England rolling by out her window more brightly than it had on the train ride south just two days before. Her excitement and relief at knowing that her sight—and with it her ability to work—would no longer be impaired did not, however, quell the nerves that she still felt knowing another cook had been put in her place. She wondered whether the family had missed her and would welcome her back. Throughout Mrs. Patmore and Anna's time in London, Anna had assured Mrs. Patmore that his lordship would not have bothered to fix her up if his intention was to sack her upon her return, but Mrs. Patmore could not be calm, not until she walked back into the house and into her kitchen.

_Her_ kitchen.

Once the train came safely into the Downton station, Anna and Mrs. Patmore gathered their bags and stepped off. They were quickly greeted by Pratt, who had been sent to fetch them. Grateful not to have to make the walk back, the women hopped into the motor as he secured their bags, and soon after, they set off. It was near midday, so Anna assumed that Mrs. Branson would still be at the house preparing luncheon when they arrived. She also assumed Mrs. Patmore would be aware of this, but Anna figured reminding Mrs. Patmore and preparing her for the sight wouldn't be a terrible idea.

"You remember the doctor's orders, do you not, Mrs. Patmore? You are to rest before getting back into things this week."

"I remember perfectly well!" Mrs. Patmore responded.

"That means allowing Mrs. Branson the room to do her duties in the kitchen."

Mrs. Patmore turned to look at Anna as if affronted. "And what exactly were you expecting me to do, if not that?"

Anna tried to hold back a smile. "Nothing. I just don't want you to exert yourself, that's all."

Mrs. Patmore faced forward again and sat up a bit straighter, and Anna grinned.

At the end of the short trip, Pratt pulled the motor up to the garage, and the two women made their way to the service entrance. The kitchen staff was, in fact, making preparations for luncheon when they walked through the door. Of the other servants, those who were in the servants hall paused for a moment to welcome them back.

After a few minutes of greetings and pleasantries, Anna excused herself to go upstairs and change so she could unpack before resuming her duties that afternoon. Mrs. Hughes escorted Mrs. Patmore into the kitchen, where the activity slowed as Mrs. Patmore recounted her ordeal.

"So you had a good time of it, then?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"As good as one can expect when doctors are all poking around your face," Mrs. Patmore said. Tapping the glasses with her finger, she added, "And I've these as a memento to remember it all."

"How long will you wear them?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"A week or so. But I can see much better already, even with them on."

Behind Mrs. Hughes, Claire and Daisy were watching and smiled at one another, both happy that Mrs. Patmore had come back healthy and in good spirits.

"Well, thank heaven," Mrs. Hughes said. Turning to bring Claire into the conversation, Mrs. Hughes said, "Now, we need to talk about the garden party. Mrs. Branson and I have made some lists—"

Mrs. Patmore scoffed immediately. She'd stand aside for today, but she had no intention of letting Mrs. Branson continue to intrude into her domain any more than necessary. "Mrs. Branson!?" she exclaimed. "Oh, I think we can manage without any help from Mrs Branson."

Despite how much more smoothly things had gone for Claire at Downton after that first day, she was fully expecting Mrs. Patmore to return guns blazing. Claire's guard was up quickly. "Can you? Well, if you want your garden party to be run by a blind pugh, that's your business."

Mrs. Hughes spoke up again, hoping to avert a fight. "Mrs. Patmore, there's a lot to be done and you're only just up on your feet. We really cannot manage without Mrs. Branson."

Mrs. Patmore looked back and forth between Mrs. Hughes and Claire. Then, with a sigh, she finally replied, "If you say so."

Mrs. Hughes let out the breath she'd been holding and quickly got on with business. "Now, I've been checking the stores and I've ordered what you'll need for the baking."

"That's very kind, Mrs. Hughes," Claire said, "But, now that Mrs. Patmore is back, I believe _we_ should check the stores when it's convenient."

"Mrs. Branson, at Downton Abbey, the housekeeper manages the store cupboard, but I think you'll find—"

"I've never not run my own store cupboard in my life!" Claire said aghast. "Separate the cook for the store cupboard? Where's the sense in that?"

A flabbergasted Claire turned to the only person in the room who could possibly understand the absurdity of what Mrs. Hughes had just said—however unlikely an ally Mrs. Patmore might be, surely she would understand _this_.

And indeed, Mrs. Patmore had stood up and with an unmistakable air of delight in her expression, practically yelled out, "How long have I been saying this, O Lord!?"

Feeling supported, Claire turned back to Mrs. Hughes. "Due respect, Mrs. Hughes, but we're the ones who cook it. We should be the ones to order it."

Mrs. Patmore walked over to stand next to Claire, "Mrs. Branson, I shall be very happy with your help with the garden party. I'm sure we can manage it easily between the two of us."

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes and wondered whether having the two cooks at odds with one another had really been the worst thing in the world. She let out a loud sigh and left the kitchen without another word.

Daisy smiled brightly at the turn of events. Happy not to have to choose sides, as she had feared Mrs. Patmore would force her to do upon her return.

Claire, not forgetting that there was still a meal to finish, looked at Daisy and said, "Mind the souffle, dear, it's bound to be ready."

"Souffle?" Mrs. Patmore asked curiously.

"Cheese souffle, Mrs. Patmore," Claire answered getting back to the stove where she had been about to poach the salmon before Mrs. Patmore and Anna had made their entrance. "It's your recipe. Daisy found it in the pantry, said it was a favorite of the family."

Mrs. Patmore nodded, pleased. "Indeed."

Once Claire dropped the fish into the pan of boiling broth, she turned back to Mrs. Patmore. "I'll have that apology now."

Mrs. Patmore's face closed up. "For what do I have to apologize?"

"You risked this poor girl's job and my standing with my own family by asking her to sabotage me! I'm happy to be your friend and ally here, Mrs. Patmore, but let's start on even footing, shall we?"

Daisy nervously looked over her shoulder to see a red-faced Mrs. Patmore, who did her best to collect herself and control her ire. That done, she deliberately walked over to Daisy and said, "I'm sorry, Daisy."

"It-it's all right," the kitchen maid answered meekly.

Turning to Claire, Mrs. Patmore added, "I think I'll go upstairs and rest now, Mrs. Branson. You have things in hand here?"

Claire, of course, meant for Mrs. Patmore to offer an apology to herself _and_ Daisy, but she smiled anyway, knowing that a battle between her and Mrs. Patmore's pride would be a fruitless one.

"We do. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

And with that, the cook, humbled, but only slightly, went up to her bedroom to bed.

* * *

A little over a week away, the garden party wasn't just on the minds of those working below stairs. As Mrs. Patmore was making her way up to her room, Cora was at the desk in the library looking over the RSVP cards that had already started to arrive. Her list of attendees was growing by the day, which pleased Cora. This would be the first time the family would hold such an event since they'd been back to Downton after their temporary departure. The season had felt a bit lackluster, but here they'd be among their closest friends and in the shadow of Downton's splendor.

Looking at the list, Cora sat back and smiled.

"You look pleased," Robert said coming into the room.

Cora turned to him, still smiling. "I am pleased. We're going to have record attendance at the garden party this year—even without having held it the last two years."

"Anyone particularly interesting?"

"The Bellasis family is coming."

"Oh? It's been a while since we've seen them," Robert said, sitting down on the sofa.

Cora came over to join him. "Well, it was to be expected. We were at Downton Place, and Roger was posted to India."

"Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose."

Cora smiled. "I thought you liked Roger."

"I do. I just never had much interest in foreign affairs—at least not those to the east, not like him, anyway."

"I'm sure Tom will enjoy talking to him."

Robert opened up the newspaper he'd walked in with, ignoring Cora's last comment.

On a different day, she might have needled Robert on his continuing pique at Tom, but she was in too good a mood now to spoil it with a quarrel. And she knew Robert still needed time.

Nevertheless, she rolled her eyes as she stood again and walked back to the desk. "His son will be coming as well. He just finished at Oxford. That's why they came back. I would have thought we'd have seen more of them in London, knowing that, but at least it will mean the girls will get the first look."

"First look at what?" Robert asked, not looking up from the newspaper.

"At Roger's son, of course. He was a handsome young man, as I remember. Anne said in her note that he is considering joining the diplomatic corps as well. The point is I think it would be nice for the girls to get reacquainted with him."

Robert chuckled. "We've not been back a week from London and you're already at it again. Can't we have a little break?"

Cora looked at him from the side of her eyes. "They have to be married, Robert. You know that as well as I do. Why you pretend that it doesn't worry you is beyond me."

"Well, he's too young for Mary," Robert said.

"They were born the same year."

"Don't you think a man should have a measure more maturity than his wife?"

"I think there are different kinds of maturity," Cora responded. After a moment, though, she sighed and said, "You're right. Given English custom, and Mary's own airs and predilections, it's likely she'll not bother with him. Given his interests I wonder whether Sybil wouldn't like him."

"I suppose it is never too early to start with her," Robert said, "though I believe she may be a tough nut to crack as far as marriage is concerned."

Cora laughed softly. "It pains me to say you're probably right on that score, but regardless, it will be good for her to start meeting people outside our family and Yorkshire acquaintances before next year."

Robert looked back down at the newspaper and just a moment later looked back up at Cora with a sad smile. "Poor old Edith. We never seem to talk about her."

"I'm afraid Edith will be the one to care for us in our old age," Cora said somewhat dismissively. not bothering to look up from what she was writing.

"What a ghastly prospect," Robert said with a sigh. "I can scarcely believe the time has come for Sybil. Doesn't it seem like yesterday Lynch was guiding her around the grounds on her first pony?"

Cora smiled and looked up to see Violet coming to the library door.

"The Dowager Countess," Carson announced.

"We were discussing Sybil, mama," Robert said, sitting back down after Violet settled in next to him.

"Oh, is she not well?"

"He means we were discussing her prospects," Cora said. "I think it will do good to try to bring her out of her shell a bit this year, before next June."

"I'd agree if I thought there was a shell to speak of when it came to Sybil," Violet responded.

"Oh, I know Sybil is not shy, _per se_ , but it wouldn't hurt for her to make some new friends."

"Shouldn't the oldest be married off first?" Violet asked.

"No one's forgotten Mary, mama," Robert said.

"Only the whole of London society," Voilet said.

Cora and Robert exchanged exasperated glances.

"If you're going to start with that, I'm going upstairs," Robert said standing and moving toward the door. "Luncheon will be soon, I expect, Carson?"

"Indeed, my lord," the butler responded from where he was standing by the door. "I'll go see to it now."

Left alone with Cora, Violet turned back to her daughter-in-law. "So you've invited someone for Sybil?"

"I didn't invite him for her, exactly, but it's Tom Bellasis, the heir to Lord Goring."

"I don't remember him. Has he been to Downton before?"

"His uncle and father have hunted with Robert, but I don't recall if the young man himself has or not. I believe I would remember. Anyway, he's been at university these last four years."

Violet took a deep breath. "Do you honestly believe he's likely to hold her attention?" She asked, her tone revealing a clear skepticism.

"You make her sound so picky. Sybil hasn't known many young men. She's bound to find him interesting."

"Oh, Cora, you are mistaken if you infer from Sybil's preference for a small social circle anything other than satisfaction with her present company."

Cora looked at Violet with a questioning expression. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You cannot tell me that you don't have some inkling as to her attachment to Tom _Branson_? Have Mary's interests so taken your attention?"

"You can't be serious," Cora said incredulous.

"I'm perfectly serious! I was here almost everyday while you were gone, and something blossomed in her. I can't say whether it's been there all along but it's there now and not easily supplanted, I dare say."

As Violet spoke, Cora moved again from the desk and sat next to her mother-in-law.

"She's still so young. It can't be more than a passing adolescent fancy."

Violet tilted her head and pursed her lips, not even bothering to vocalize a truth both she and Cora recognized in the youngest member of the family—Sybil was never one inclined to feel anything other than very deeply.

Cora sighed. "He _is_ handsome. And so good natured and well spoken and charming. It's a wonder they all didn't fall in love with him."

"You know why they other two didn't," Violet said. "The same reason, Mary balked at Matthew. Because Tom's not one of us. It's an instinct that Sybil has never possessed—understanding the expectations of her position. Her best friend is a housemaid for heaven's sake!"

Cora smiled, endeared by her youngest daughter's welcoming heart, but worried about the heartbreak that such an unprejudiced nature might bring her in the face of upper class snobbery. Then Cora thought about Tom himself, and the unspoken promise she'd made to herself to stand by him after learning his background.

"Tom _is_ one of us, Violet," Cora said, finally. "He just won't live like us. There are complications there, I'll admit, and Sybil isn't in a position now to understand what his lack of fortune as a young man means for securing her future. Our job is to present her with options, and that's what we'll do."

"And if he's the option she chooses?" Violet asked pointedly.

"Then I shall be very glad for them both, though I'm afraid Robert will never approve. I won't like contradicting him."

Violet sighed. "I wouldn't say never with Robert. But certainly, we'll not bring it to him now."

Cora narrowed her eyes. "Do _you_ plan to plead Tom's case!? I know you like him, but I wouldn't have thought he would meet with your approval to marry into the family—certainly not now that we know what we do about him."

"I know my granddaughter, just as I know my son. She'll not be told no, and Robert, well . . . he is stubborn, but he at least can be persuaded."

"That doesn't answer my question," Cora said, smiling.

"No, I don't plan to plead Tom's case with Robert. As I said I know my son, and I am confident Tom will bring him around on his own without my help."

Cora looked at Violet for a long time. "I know you'll never admit this to me, but you're very pleased about this."

"Why would I be pleased about my granddaughter wanting to marry the son of a cook?"

"Mary gets this from you," Cora said, standing.

"What are you talking about!?" Violet asked, taken aback.

Cora smiled serenely. "The desire for others to believe you a much bigger snob than you really are."

Violet held Cora's gaze, but said nothing. Eventually Cora turned and left the room.

Violet looked around the library and laughed at herself.

"Silly, isn't it?" She finally replied to no one in particular.

* * *

 

**A week later**

There was a little bit of cloud cover as the sun rose on the morning of July 18, 1913. But it was gone in a matter of hours, and by mid-morning it was apparent that the weather for the first garden party at Downton Abbey in two years was going to be perfect.

Given the amount of food that was going to be served over the course of the afternoon, Claire was up with the sun and made the walk to the big house before anyone else at Crawley House was even up—everyone, that is, except Moseley, who made it a point to be up to walk with her. Because he had his own duties to see to, Moseley only saw Claire as far as the yard outside the servants hall before heading back to the village. But it was just as well since inside, the kitchen was already such a flurry of activity that Claire barely had time to say hello before an apron and a mixing bowl were thrust in her face, Mrs. Patmore yelling out instructions to her about starting the cakes.

There was a buzz of excitement about the room, and it was contagious. Claire smiled, quickly put her things away and began to gather her ingredients in the pantry. She set things out on the end of the table across from where Mrs. Patmore was kneading the bread dough.

"It's been too long since we've had a day like this, Mrs. Branson," Mrs. Patmore said, brightly, clearly in her element. "When we were at Downton Place, I honestly thought we'd not have another."

Mrs. Patmore looked down for a moment, and held her flour covered hands together, as if taking a moment to appreciate all that it meant to be back at Downton Abbey and to have her full health again.

"I reckon the house and grounds will look lovely dressed up the for occasion," Claire said. "I'm sure it feels good to show off a bit."

Mrs. Patmore looked up, smiling again. "It does, especially when I can see it all with my own two eyes again."

Claire smiled and got to work.

A few minutes later, O'Brien, Cora's newspaper tucked under her arm, came in. Not bothering to offer a greeting to anyone, she barked out, "Her ladyship's breakfast?"

Daisy quickly brought the tray—already prepared with two slices of toast and one poached egg—over to O'Brien, who, without another word, swept out of the room as quickly as she'd swept in.

Normally, O'Brien took Cora's breakfast up a bit later in the morning, but she knew Cora would be up early with such a day ahead. When she got to the door, O'Brien knocked lightly twice to announce herself before opening the door and walking in.

"Good morning, O'Brien," said Cora, who was already sitting up on her bed. Robert, always an early riser, had already left for his dressing room.

"Good morning, my lady," O'Brien said setting the tray on her lap and unfolding her copy of The Sketch and setting it next to the tray.

"The kitchen staff is already knee deep in preparations for today, I imagine?" Cora asked as she buttered her bread.

"They are, milady," O'Brien said walking over to the windows to adjust the curtains. It was the job of the housemaids to do so first thing in the morning, but O'Brien new Cora was particular about the amount of light that was to be let in, and none on the staff ever did the job to O'Brien's satisfaction.

"Mrs. Patmore seems fully recovered now," O'Brien continued. "I was surprised to see Mrs. Branson was called to help. I wouldn't have thought her services were needed anymore."

"It's kind of her to help," Cora said taking a bit of her egg. "It's a big day."

O'Brien looked over her shoulder to watch Cora. "But does her ladyship think it wise to have her on the premises with so many guests here? Won't her presence invite the scrutiny of those who may not approve of Mr. Branson's position with the family?"

"None of the guests have reason to know of her, and certainly I don't expect any of them to find their way to the kitchens. And anyway, as far as Mr. Branson is concerned—the situation is what it is. If anyone asks, they'll be told the truth, but honestly who would even guess?"

O'Brien, turned back to the curtains again and rolled her eyes.

Having eaten her egg, Cora took the newspaper O'Brien had laid out for her and folded it so she could read as she finished her toast.

O'Brien, once finished with the curtains, walked over the the wardrobe to begin to lay out Cora's clothes for the day.

"Had any of the girls rung yet, before you came up?" Cora asked a few minutes later.

"I don't think so," O'Brien replied.

"Let's hope they all wake up on the right side of the bed this morning," Cora said.

"Is Lady Mary welcoming a potential match today?" O'Brien asked.

Cora sighed, putting the paper down and leaning back onto her pillows again. "We've invited several. Whether she will be _welcoming_ to any of them is another matter."

Noticing that Cora had finished eating, O'Brien came over, removed the tray and set it down on the bedside table.

"Your ladyship mentioned Sir Anthony Strallan before the season. Will he be among them?"

Cora moved to get out of bed, and O'Brien brought over her dressing gown.

"He will," Cora said, "though his lordship fears Sir Anthony is too old." She paused and, rolling her eyes, added, "He thinks Tom Bellasis is too young. Mary, herself, won't tell me what she thinks. But she is clear in her insinuations that I am quite a pest. And now we have Sybil to worry about. Her strong character certainly isn't going to make it any easier."

O'Brien waited for a moment, holding the dressing gown open and expecting a complaint about Edith to follow. None came.

She stepped forward indicating for Cora to turn around, wondering cynically whether Edith's lack of admirers was a result, not of her own failings, but of those of her parents. O'Brien herself had been a middle child and succumed early on to her parents' expectations: work, not marriage. The duress of her life had hardened her, and at this stage she no longer minded the rougher edges of her personality. She relished in them, really. But deep down, in the recesses of her soul where the memories of a more hopeful youth resided, Sarah O'Brien had empathy and the ability to recognize neglect—even when riches and privilege hid it specially well.

"The _three_ ," O'Brien said, as Cora shrugged on her dressing gown. "They can't ignore your help, knowing it's in their best interests."

If Cora noticed O'Brien's emphasis, she did not show it.

"I'd like to just tell them whom to marry and be done with it. The truth is, they're all getting too old for a mother's control."

"They're growing up."

Cora walked over to her vanity and sat down, wearily. "They've grown up. They need their own establishments."

O'Brien walked up behind her to begin to take down her hair. "I'm sure they'll all get plenty of offers."

"No one ever warns you about bringing up daughters. You think it's going to be like Little Women. Instead, they're at each other's throats from dawn till dusk."

"All siblings quarrel."

Cora looked at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Feeling O'Brien's fingers in her hair, she turned abruptly.

"You know, I think I'll go see them."

"Now?"

Cora stood and made her way to the door. "I just want to make sure they start the day off right."

She walked over to Mary's room, intending to go in without knocking, but before her hand made it to the knob on the door, she heard someone behind her.

"Mama?"

It was Edith.

"What are you doing up so early?" Cora asked.

"I'm always the first at breakfast."

Cora smiled. "Of course. I guess I take mine so often in my room, I didn't notice."

Edith smiled back, and there was an eagerness in her that surprised Cora, like a tiny detail in a large painting that once discovered makes the work seem entirely new even though it has been there all along.

It was the eagerness of a young girl on the morning of her first ball. Eagerness that, despite life's best efforts, had not been wholly tapped out of Edith yet.

_Why else do unmarried women wake early but to wait for visitors?_

Cora looked back at Mary's door, then down the hall to Sybil's. Turning back to Edith, Cora's heart spit out an ugly truth: she had not intended to go to see her middle daughter, nor even thought of her on what otherwise felt like an important morning. The force of the realization hit Cora hard—so did the shame that came with it—and tears began to well in Cora's eyes.

Edith stepped forward. "Mama, is everything all right?"

Cora took a deep breath and took Edith's hands into hers. "Yes, my darling. I just . . . I wanted to tell you that I want your help in greeting guests this afternoon."

" _My_ help?"

Cora's smiled tightened, the incredulity in her daughter's voice confirming to Cora Edith's assumptions regarding her mother's disengaged affection. "Yes," she said quietly. "I want everyone to see you."

Edith smiled bashfully, but clearly pleased.

"Now, why don't you go down and have a good breakfast."

Edith nodded and then, still smiling, turned to go.

Cora knew how different her daughters were and prided herself on recognizing their differences and treating them as individuals. Had Edith not stepped out of her room in that moment on that morning, Cora might not have learned that there can also be harm in differing expectations.

Cora looked back to Mary's door. Then to Sybil's again.

_There is plenty of time for Sybil_ , she thought. _Time she may not even need._

Thinking of Mary and Edith, Cora resolved to give space to the daughter who needed it and devote her attention, at least on this particular day, to the one who more obviously wanted it.

So the mother of _three_ went back into her room.

* * *

 

Later that morning, with the rest of the family, indeed the whole house, all up and about, the first guest arrived. The garden party would not start for hours yet, but Miss Imogen Wilkes had been separated from her good friend for two months, and she simply could not be asked to wait any longer. Sybil was only too happy to see her and shortly after Imogen's arrival (her parents would be coming later), the two set off arm-in-arm for a walk around the grounds.

"Hot house flowers simply do not compare to proper country gardens, my dear Sybil. How lucky you are to get to walk about these lovely blooms at your leisure. London is a dream some days, but really rather dirty and loud most of the time. New York is as well, I suppose, but it was nice to have Central Park at our doorstep, where one can take a walk and feel quite removed from the city. But we've no such recourse in our London house, at least not one so nice as that. How I miss life in the country! I know I thought it terribly boring before, so I acknowledge this is a change of mind. Oh, isn't it just like me to want only what I don't have. And so selfish, too, when you perhaps wish for the thrills of town. Do forgive me, darling."

Sybil laughed. "There's certainly no need to apologize for dissatisfaction with life. I grant that we are luckier than most and have grown up with many blessings, but what else may we feel but dissatisfaction when we are given many things to _have_ , but nothing to _do_."

"Oh, how eloquently put! You did always have a marvelous way with words. Would that your family had brought you to London in June. What a time we would have had! Even without doing the season, it would have been well spent, don't you think?"

"If I may be honest, I had quite a nice time here. I love having Downton to myself and had the company of very good friends. I even learned how to ride a bicycle."

"How positively modern of you! I've seen some of the shop girls riding them along the street. They wear shorter skirts to make it easier to pedal and look very smart doing it. Is it terribly fun?"

"Indeed it is. Here the roads are quiet. I imagine it's a greater challenge in the traffic of London."

"Of course, I'd never be given permission to do such a thing," Imogen said with a deep sigh.

"I don't know that papa would have given it if I'd asked, which is why I didn't."

Imogen laughed. "Naughty, Sybil! I shall take that lesson and apply it to my own purposes!"

"I do envy your London life in one respect," Sybil said. "To be among the action of the women's movement as you are, I must say, I'd happily give up the flowers and my bicycle for a chance to be in the middle of it."

"It is exciting. Unfortunately, papa has gotten increasingly strict about my support of the vote since poor Miss Davison's death last month, gruesome as it was. Not that I was allowed to do much before beyond the weekly luncheon with the committee. Oh, Sybil, aren't committee meetings the most terribly boring events that ever happen on the face of this earth? I do long to do more for the cause than eat dry scones at the tea room at Selfridge's."

"I'd like to attend the rallies in Ripon," Sybil said. "But I've not yet worked out how. Tom goes sometimes and he brings me the literature to read, but for me travel to Ripon would require the motor, which requires telling papa, who I believe would be even less inclined than yours to give permission."

"Dear Sybil, I'll be so happy when we are thought quite grown up by our parents, at least grown up enough to make our own choices. Even in the my manner of dress, they won't leave me to my own devices—and you know how I take pride in my presentation. Mama simply doesn't understand my tastes in any way. It's a year away and I already dread the choice she'll force on me for my ball. I'll have my own ideas, naturally, but compromise between us does not come easily, I'm afraid. I do wish she would trust my instincts when it comes to the latest trends and what looks best on me. Are you quite looking forward to it?"

"I am, I think," Sybil said with a smile.

Imogen leaned in conspiratorially, "Do you know what Lady Eloise Cavendish told me?"

"What?"

"A girl's first season is not complete until, she's lost a shoe, spilled wine on herself and stolen away from a ballroom to kiss someone!" Imogen giggled, then added, "I am confident as to my ability to complete the first two, but less so about the third task, I'm afraid."

Sybil looked at Imogen from the side of her eyes for a moment, weighing the extent to which she wanted to confide in her chatty friend. She'd never known Imogen to be anything but fiercely loyal, but her stolen kisses with Tom felt like little treasures to her, treasures that Sybil wanted to share only with someone who would appreciate their worth.

Tentatively, Sybil spoke. "So . . . you've never kissed anyone before?"

Imogen looked at Sybil, with quite the same question of trust in her eyes that Sybil had been asking herself moment before.

"You don't have to answer, if you think it an impertinent question," Sybil said.

"No . . . it's—well, you see, I have. I just hope you do not question my character when I tell you who it was."

"I would never question it!" Sybil said, immediately. "I hate it that women are judged harshly for experiences all creatures long to have at some point in their lives."

Imogen squeezed Sybil's arm. "I am so glad we are friends!"

Imogen looked around, as if ensuring she would not be heard by anyone other than her confidant. "It was the son our butler in New York! Isn't it rather scandalous! He's apprentice to the tailor that makes papa's suits and he was in the house once last year in the kitchen. I'd gone down to steal a bit of bread to take with me to the park to give the birds, and since I'd met him before we got to talking. We talked for quite a long time, actually. He was so handsome I was rather entranced. Before I knew it, he was leaning in—quite without permission!—but in the end I allowed it. It was lovely. Though I imagine it will be better when I'm properly in love, don't you think?"

"It'll be like heaven."

The words came out of Sybil's mouth before she realized it, but Imogen, naturally, recognized their meaning right away.

"Oh! My dearest darling, _you_ have kissed someone! Do you love him terribly? I'll take the secret to the grave, I promise."

Sybil giggled and blushed slightly. "Well . . . though I hope it is not so obvious to everyone else, you have probably guessed that I love Tom. And, yes, he has kissed me. He's not spoken to papa yet, but we'd like to marry."

"How deliciously romantic! Oh, Sybil, he seems like such a fine person. I can only imagine he'll be a perfectly wonderful husband."

"The trouble is—"

"He has no title or fortune?" Imogen cut in.

Sybil shook her head. "It makes no difference to me, but papa won't like it. To make things worse, things are already difficult between them right now because . . . well, you know that he's a solicitor—"

"A thrilling profession, I've no doubt!"

"But his parents were poor, you see. His mother is a housekeeper. I've met her and she's a wonderful person, but you know how people of our position can be."

Imogen sighed. "I'd like to believe that when there is such love, nothing else matters. But there are too many people for whom birth matters a great deal more."

Sybil smiled sadly.

"Do you know that there are still women with whom mama was acquainted as a child that look down on her for marrying papa."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "But Sir John—"

"Is rich beyond belief, yes, but he wasn't at birth. My grandmother was the daughter of a doctor and my grandfather worked on the docks in Liverpool—they lived a middle class life but it was a humble one. Papa tells people he grew up in the shipping business but that's only true in that he learned the trade from a father who started at the bottom. Those who do not know him well assume he inherited his business like every other upper class son. I confess I am not patient with mama, but that's because before coming here, I didn't know that the daughter of a duke would take abuse for marrying a man like papa, despite our living in the biggest house on the square! It is our money that maintains uncle's lands. He is a duke by birth, but _his grace_ wasted everything else away with drink and gambling. I used to think that mama married papa for his money, but now I know the truth—she grew up surrounded by gentlemen who could not be counted on. She chose a man in industry because a successful working man would not squander prosperity born of labor."

Imogen turned to face Sybil and took both her hands in hers. "Sybil, I am a spoiled child who is quite used to a life that offers me much more than I need. Luckily for me, the fortune my father has made is not tied to a title like your father's. I will have something substantial to give my husband even if he has nothing but love to give me. Your situation is different, but you are also different. Tom may not be able to give you what you have at Downton, but luckily for you, you have been blessed with a desire to experience a life that's quite removed from this one. Isn't that marvelous!?"

Sybil, now smiling, threw her arms around Imogen. "I am so glad we are friends!"

Imogen returned her friend's embrace eagerly. When they pulled away, Imogen tucked Sybil's arm into hers again and said, "Now, we just need to find _me_ a suitable beau!"

"I've no doubt mama has ensured there are plenty of candidates here today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: The "Miss Davison" whose death Imogen makes reference to is Emily Davison, a suffragette who died in June 1913 after she jumped onto a racetrack to disturb a horse race to bring attention to the suffrage movement. The show itself makes reference to her in the speech that Sybil is listening to at the rally she attends at the start of the second to last episode of series one (the one at which Isobel is also present).


	32. The Garden Party, 1913, Part 2

 

Just as the garden party was about to start, Pratt headed to Crawley House to pick up Isobel, Matthew and Tom as well as Moseley and Ivy, who would be assisting the staff. But when Pratt arrived, the weather was so pleasing that Matthew and Tom decided to walk.

"We'll see you soon," Isobel called out as a the motor pulled away. Before leaving the house, she had been delighted to see them both in their linen suits. Tom was always loathe to wear anything particularly "fancy," but the tails had become such routine by now that talking him into this was rather easy.

The hat was another matter.

Even as he walked with Matthew, he was still fidgeting with it.

"Good God, man, it's just a hat."

"It doesn't sit right on my head. Who ever heard of straw as material to make a proper man's hat."

"Thousands of milliners through the centuries. It's hardly a new invention."

"Well, I don't like it," Tom said petulantly, making Matthew laugh.

"You don't like anything."

"And you like everything," Tom said with a chuckle.

After walking in companionable silence for a few minutes, Tom asked casually, "Do you know who will be attending today?"

"I'm not sure. Mother said the hospital board and other benefactors have been invited, though I assume most will be social acquaintances of the family."

"I suppose we'll be seeing something of the Downton of old."

Matthew chuckled. "Except the likes of us would not have been invited before."

Tom laughed for a moment, but Matthew's joke, however lightheartedly intended, was a reminder of his present standing with Robert.

Sensing this Matthew said, "Robert won't hold a grudge forever, you know."

Tom laughed again, this time somewhat mirthlessly. "Robert's current opinion is of no consequence to me, at least as far as the immediate future is concerned."

"Isn't it?"

"I am genuinely sorry that things can't be as they were between us, but I won't go out of my way to please him. How could that be possible, anyway, when the cause of his ire is something about myself I cannot change."

"And what about Sybil? Robert's opinion of you is of consequence to her."

Tom smiled thinking of her, which in turn made Matthew smile, seeing how far gone his friend was. "I certainly don't want to make things worse, but even if I believed that time will soften him, I can't imagine that a week will have sufficed."

"So your plan to avoid him is to continue?"

"I'm not avoiding him!"

"You clear out of dinner immediately after it's finished!"

Tom smiled again—and if Matthew had been looking at him directly, he'd have noticed a slight blush in his cheeks, too. Because Tom's current habit of leaving the Downton Abbey dining room with the ladies had little to do with Robert and everything to do with Sybil. While it remained true that the current rift between Tom and Robert made his future with her a bit complicated, in the present, it allowed the young couple a few precious minutes alone after dinner without raising too much suspicion. Something of a ritual had developed while Mrs. Patmore was gone and the whole family was dining at Downton every night, and they both missed their secret meetings upon Mrs. Patmore's return.

Eventually, Tom turned to Matthew and said, "It's not avoidance, just giving him a wide berth."

"And here I thought you might ask him about the Lords' rejection of the Home Rule Bill again."

Tom looked at Matthew from the side of his eyes. "I would if I knew the man bothered to vote at all. But thank you for reminding me of what I hate most about the aristocracy just as I'm dressed as a proper fop and expected to be deferential and charming to the bloody lot of them this afternoon. If my temper flares and I knock someone's lights out, I shall blame you."

Matthew laughed. "We can dine at the Grantham Arms this evening if it will make you feel better."

"It would actually, as long as I can dispense with this silly hat."

A short while later, Tom and Matthew walked around the house to the gardens and saw that a small crowd had already begun to gather. They spotted Robert and Cora standing under a tent near the driveway greeting guests as they arrived. Edith was standing near them, talking with a threesome Matthew recognized immediately as the Grey family. When he pointed them out to Tom, the latter couldn't help but laugh.

"Do you think Larry will grant me the honor of acknowledging my presence this time?" Tom asked, jokingly.

"Do you really want him to?" Matthew asked in response.

"Not in the slightest."

Matthew laughed. After a moment, he asked, a bit tentatively, "Shall we go say hello?"

Tom sighed. "Robert looks like he's enjoying himself. I'll spare him the discomfort of seeing me."

Matthew sighed. "All right then."

Tom scanned the crowd and saw Sybil, who had been left by Imogen only reluctantly, when the Wilkes had arrived and had asked their daughter to remain with them, at least at the start, so they could greet other guests as a family. Sybil now was talking with Isobel and Violet, and after Tom pointed them out to Matthew, the two young men headed in different directions.

As Tom walked toward the trio of women, Thomas walked past him, and Tom grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray he was carrying. All three women smiled, Sybil brightest of all, which, of course, did not escape Violet's notice. Violet shook her head slightly, a small smile threatening at the corners of her lips, as she thought about how Cora's attempts to steer Sybil in a different direction were likely to be so much wasted effort.

Looking back at Tom as he came closer, Violet raised her eyebrows, a bit taken by how nice he looked in Sunday finery. His confidence for so young a man sometimes reminded Violet or her own husband, who, like Tom, was proud to a fault, always eager for an argument and generally the cleverest person in the room. The comparison amused Violet because she was sure neither man would appreciate it. It was, perhaps, this demeanor in Tom that had ultimately endeared him to her. Tom believed wholeheartedly that he belonged wherever he chose to be, and despite how traditional she was in all other respects, Violet liked that about him. It also made her confident that Tom would give Sybil the life she deserved—however foreign that life might be to the one Violet herself had lived.

Stepping up to them, Tom smiled. "You seem surprised to see me," he said, looking at Violet.

"Only surprised to see that you have dressed for the occasion," she responded.

He laughed lightly. "My breeding may hinder my social graces, not my ability to look the part."

"Nor your ability to mock the game or the other players, I'm sure."

Tom laughed again, heartily this time, and it pleased both Isobel and Sybil to see that despite Robert's cool attitude toward him at the moment, Violet was as warm to Tom as ever.

* * *

 

After the bulk of the guests had been greeted, Cora encouraged Robert to talk with Sir Anthony Strallan, who had arrived with his sister, Mrs. Chetwood. Cora had met her in London in June, and she had intimated that her brother was interested in marrying again.

When Robert found him, Anthony was deep in conversation with Imogen's father, Sir John Wilkes, about political happenings on the continent in the wake of Bulgaria's attack on Serbia and Greece a month before.

"Greek ports have been essential to us," Robert heard John say as he approached the two men. "Instability in the region would be most unwelcome."

Seeing Robert approach, Anthony smiled. "Lord Grantham, do you have thoughts on the unrest in Europe?"

"I don't I'm afraid, other than to wish that those on the eastern edges of the continent learn to differentiate fits of pique from acts of war."

John chuckled for a moment, then said, "Anthony tells me you served together in the Boer Wars."

"Indeed," Robert said with a nod, "though I cannot claim to have distinguished myself as Anthony did."

"Did you ever consider a foreign posting?" John asked, turning to Anthony.

"It wasn't for me," Anthony replied. "Outside of duty to king and country, my heart has no desire but to reside in this county."

"Never was particularly adventurous, my brother."

All three men turned to see Mrs. Chetwood approach.

Five years younger than her older brother, Delilah Chetwood, nee Strallan, had long ago married off her only son, and having no other children—and as yet no grandchildren—onto whom to project her motherly instincts, she had turned her attentions to her brother, who welcomed them only reluctantly.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but I wonder if I may steal my brother away from what I am sure is a splendid conversation. I promise to return him in due course."

Robert and John both smiled as Mrs. Chetwood led Anthony away.

"Anthony, we've been here an hour and you haven't even spoken to Lady Mary!" She whispered once the two were a safe distance away.

"When we arrived you said it was deeply important that I converse with Lord Grantham, so I may be in his good graces."

"Yes, but what good will those graces do if the prey doesn't know it's being pursued."

"You make it sound like I'm out on a hunt."

"You are!"

"Delilah—"

"All I'm saying is that she needs to get to know you—how are you to find a wife if you won't bother looking for one? I expect that short of Lady Grantham and myself you've not spoken to a single female here."

"I spoke with Lady Edith, or don't you remember her greeting us alongside her parents. She was sweet."

"Oh, Anthony, surely even you can see that Mary is the prize to be won! Edith _is_ sweet, but rather a plain girl and she's made no impression on anyone in London."

"She's a lovely girl, and you gossip far too much."

"I only collect information that's to your benefit."

Anthony rolled his eyes, not bothering to offer a reply.

"For example," Mrs. Chetwood continued. "Since Mr. Napier pursued Mary last year and was rebuffed, there's been plenty of talk as to why, most of it seeking to find fault in her. I don't believe any of that talk, myself, but perhaps you can use it to your advantage."

"Delilah, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm only looking out for your interests," Mrs. Chetwood said, pouting in much the same way she did as a child, when she wanted to get her way.

Anthony smiled in spite of himself. "All right then, I'll talk with her, but I certainly can't promise that she'll want to marry me."

"Just try, Anthony. You deserve to be happy."

There was sincerity behind those last words, and Anthony recognized it and was grateful for it. He smiled and said, "Lead the way, then."

* * *

 

After Anthony had left them, Robert and John had continued talking about this and that, eventually landing on the topic of the past London season. Remembering his conversation with Cora the week prior regarding Sybil and what awaited her a year hence, Robert sought to commiserate with John on how quickly fathers must let go of their daughters.

"Imogen was still a girl when we left for New York," John said in response. "And she remains a girl in my own eyes, but to everyone else, now she is a woman. Priscilla is already making plans for next year. Is it easier for you with Sybil, having been around the track with the first two?"

"I wish it were, but each has been a unique challenge," Robert said with a sigh. "And Sybil is so headstrong, I almost pity the young men who will line up to ask her to dance, let alone ask for her hand."

"The loss of Patrick must have been a great disappointment for Mary," John said quietly. "I'm so very sorry, but Matthew and Tom both seem of strong character and stock. Are matches not to be found there?"

"No," Robert said, taking a drink, suddenly wishing he'd avoided the topic, it having led to this. After a moment, he added, "I'm proud to have Matthew as heir. He's a wonderful person, but he . . . well, he is still getting used to this life. Perhaps if the girls had met him under different circumstances . . . "

"And Tom?"

Robert took another drink.

John blinked a few times, surprised at Robert's seeming reticence to discuss someone he had delighted in only months ago.

Robert momentarily considered telling John the whole truth about Tom, but he held off, saying only, "Tom would never be content with the life that my daughters know."

"So much the better," John said, with a soft chuckle. "I told Tom when we were here last that I have interests in Cork, if he ever thought of going back to Ireland and wanted a position."

Robert regarded John curiously. In speaking of Tom's discontent with country living, Robert had been speaking of Tom's philosophical and political opposition to it. John had understood Robert's words more simply as a desire in Tom to leave the village of Downton behind.

Hearing no response from Robert, John turned to look at Robert for a moment said, "Tom's desire to expand the boundaries of his world beyond his current confines is a good thing, Robert. I would be more wary of a young man with no ambition."

Turning back to watch the grounds and the people milling about, John continued, "You have led a good life, and I am proud to be your friend, but not all men of your position hold it with your same dignity. Priscilla's brother is a disgrace, I don't mind saying. If it would save my daughter from a titled libertine like him, I would be happy to have a middle class son-in-law."

Not sure how else to respond, Robert smiled.

* * *

 

Seeing Cora sitting alone under the tent for the first time all afternoon, Violet walked over to her.

Cora noticed Violet approach, and when her mother-in-law was near enough, Cora asked, "Have you enjoyed yourself this afternoon?"

"I have, although I've just spent the last quarter of an hour listening to Miss Imogen Wilkes, and I'm rather exhausted," she said sitting down.

"Sweet girl, and a good friend to Sybil."

"And never uses one word when twenty will do."

Cora smiled.

"I also chatted with Mrs. Anne Bellasis and her son."

Cora raised her eyebrows. "Oh, what did you think?"

"Do you really want to know?" Violet asked pointedly.

Cora rolled her eyes, and said, "Not if that's going to be your tone, no."

"I'll tell you this: I think your time is best spent on Mary and Edith."

"It's not that I don't like Tom . . ."

"Why do you seem disappointed, then?" Violet asked.

"It's not disappointment. It's just . . . Sybil is so beautiful. Watching her grow up, I always thought she could have her pick."

"And what makes you think she hasn't had exactly that?"

Cora playfully narrowed her eyes at Violet. "Are you pushing this simply because you enjoy being against me?"

"No, but it's an added perk." Violet took a deep breath, and continued, "You'll find, Cora, that when you let go of what you wish for your children and accept what they wish for themselves, you will be a happier parent."

Cora smiled. "Thank you, that's good advice."

"You'd have realized it eventually, as all mothers do. But I hate waiting for people to catch up."

* * *

 

Unaware as to the extent to which she'd been a topic of conversation between her mother and grandmother and as to any potential match-making on her mother's part, Sybil enjoyed talking with Tom, Imogen, her sisters, family friends she had not seen since before the move to and return from Downton Place, and several acquaintances from the borstal charity in Ripon that she, Mary and Edith sometimes patronized.

Additionally, Isobel introduced Sybil to a member of the hospital board who was active locally in the suffrage movement. After that engaging conversation—and a promise from Isobel that she would be Sybil's steadfast supporter if and when Sybil broached the topic of political rallies with her father—Sybil looked around the grounds in search of Imogen or Tom. She smiled spotting them talking to one another and moved to walk in their direction when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

It was Larry Grey, wearing his usual self-satisfied expression.

"We've hardly talked since I arrived, Sybil. It's been almost a year. I thought you'd be eager to catch up, but I'm rather wondering if you're avoiding me."

"Why would I avoid you, Larry?"

"Last time we saw each other it was your birthday. You were cross with me."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "That's because you insulted my friend."

"Surely, you can let bygones be bygones?"

"I can, but only if you don't insist on making this interaction between us as unpleasant as the last."

"Is he here, your Irish friend?"

Sybil looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"There was a vote on home rule this week. Perhaps he'll want to discuss it. He should know that it was done for Ireland's own good. Wasn't it Bellasis?"

Sybil turned and saw a young man, about Larry and Tom's age standing a few feet away. He'd turned when hearing his name, and approached Sybil and Larry looking at the latter with a skeptical expression.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Grey, but I know you, so I'll go ahead and disagree."

"I was simply telling my friend Lady Sybil that Ireland is best off as part of the British Empire. The Irish people have hardly proven themselves capable of home rule, which is why the lords rejected it. It's the third time now, you'd think the Commons would get message."

The young man laughed. "I believe the only message will be from the Commons directly to the king that they've no need of the Lords. And Ireland will survive. The famine couldn't kill her, certainly independence won't."

Turning to Sybil with a bright smile, he said, "Mr. Grey appears to have no interest in introducing me, so I shall do it myself, Mr. Tom Bellasis. Lady Sybil Crawley, I presume?"

"Yes," Sybil said, with a slight nod, taking the hand he had held out to her.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, bowing slightly. "This is rather forward of me, Lady Sybil, but I wonder that I might invite you to say hello to my mother. She said she wanted to see you again."

He put out his arm, intending for her to take it, which Sybil did tentatively and he led her off into the crowd, leaving an annoyed Larry behind. Once they were out of Larry's sight, he stopped. Sybil let go of his arm and looked around.

"Which is she?"

"Who?"

Sybil narrowed her eyes at him. "Your mother?"

"Oh," he said with a laugh. "That was a ruse. You didn't seem to be enjoying the conversation, so I thought I'd save you from it."

Sybil let out a short laugh, but still regarded him a bit skeptically. "You didn't have to do that."

"I suppose it was rather presumptuous of me, wasn't it? Perhaps you find it more tiresome to talk to a person you've never met before than you do to a tosser like Larry Grey."

"No, I mean if I needed saving, I could have done it myself. I'm not afraid of Larry."

"Well, you're braver than I, that's certain."

Sybil laughed in spite of herself.

The young man had dark brown hair and blue eyes. His face was more handsome than most. His smile was bright, pleased at having amused her.

"How do you know Larry?" Sybil asked.

"We were at Oxford together. How do you?"

"Our parents are old friends," Sybil answered. She tilted her head slightly and asked, "Do you really support Irish independence or were you just trying to rile him up?"

"I won't deny that I enjoy doing that very much so I often exaggerate our disagreements, but in this case, he and I are, in fact, on opposite sides of the question."

"Really?"

"That surprises you?"

"It's a rare opinion among the aristocracy."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed, "You seem well versed in the issue."

"I have a friend with a keen interest in it."

"Well, some gentlemen derive Britain's greatness from her holdings around the world, but I am of the mind that empire breeds instability. We have gained much by our colonialism, but we are in a position to be made to pay dearly for it. I say give independence where it is sought and offer the friendship of commerce where it is welcome."

"Very well put. But then, what makes Britain great, in your mind, if not her dominions around the world."

"Her people."

"All of them or just men?"

He smiled. "Are you asking me if I support women's suffrage?"

"Do you?" Sybil asked pointedly.

"If I didn't, I'd be afraid to answer in the negative, knowing your fearlessness as I do now, but luckily for me, I do support it, to my father's eternal dismay."

Sybil grinned at his response. "Have you made very many new friends today?" She asked.

"None except for you."

"Well, follow me and you shall have two more," Sybil said, moving on quickly, assuming he'd offer his arm again and not wanting to give him a false impression. She spotted Tom and Imogen, who were still talking, and headed in their direction. Imogen spotted Sybil first and motioned to Tom, whose back was facing the direction from whence Sybil was approaching them. Both smiled as they saw Sybil coming and both looked over her shoulder to watch the young man two strides behind her, who appeared to be coming toward them as well.

Sybil walked around Tom to stand next to Imogen and took her arm subtly giving a gentle squeeze.

"May I present Miss Imogen Wilkes and Mr. Tom Branson. This is Mr. Tom Bellasis. You will both be delighted to know that he supports freedom for Ireland as well as for women."

Mr. Bellasis smiled a bit bashfully, shaking the hand of Tom first as he was closest and then stepping forward to take Imogen's.

"Your opinions do you credit, Mr. Bellasis," Imogen said, "but we are all rather picky when it comes to welcoming new people—none more than I am. So be our friend you must pledge to be nothing short of a true radical. For that, we've come to discover, is what is required for young women to be taken seriously in this world. And if you won't take Sybil and me and our interest in the women's vote seriously, you simply won't do. What do you say?"

Mr. Bellasis opened his mouth, but he was quiet at a loss for words. It was a rare thing to meet _one_ progressive and outspoken and beautiful young lady. Here were two.

In his silence, Sybil looked at Imogen and said. "He studied at Oxford. I'd hardly consider that a hotbed of dissent, but I believe he has potential."

"I do like the look of him," Imogen replied, continuing to talk as if the subject of conversation weren't directly in front of her.

"But will it be confusing to have _two_ friends who are called Tom?" Sybil asked.

"Indubitably," Imogen replied.

Mr. Bellasis looked over at Tom, with a puzzled expression. "Are they always like this?"

Tom shrugged. "I've never seen them behave like this before."

"Should we be worried?" Mr. Bellasis asked.

Tom tried to catch Sybil's eyes to discern her intentions, wondering for a moment if she was trying her hand at matchmaking, but Sybil was too busy looking back and forth between her old friend and her new acquaintance to notice.

"Very worried," Tom finally answered.

Sybil and Imogen laughed at this, which, in turn, made Tom laugh. Mr. Bellasis was still unsure as to whether he'd met their approval, but having no other recourse, he laughed as well.

* * *

 

Mary didn't mind Sir Anthony Strallan's company. He was old. Far too old, she believed. And his interests didn't seem to go beyond his farms and his automobiles, but he was a nice enough gentleman. He'd not been in London for the season, but Mary had met his sister, who was in obvious pursuit of a new sister-in-law. Mary understood that that was why he'd been invited here, and while Mary was happy to smile and nod now so as to pass the time, she had absolutely no intention of encouraging him.

"Well?"

Mary looked back up at Anthony, who was clearly expecting a response to a question she'd not bothered to hear.

"Oh, you must pardon me, Sir Anthony," Mary said, not missing a beat. "I was just thinking about how lovely the day has turned out, and I didn't hear your question."

Anthony smiled, and Mary momentarily wondered if he'd misconstrued her words and had thought that when she'd called the day "lovely" she was referring to his company rather than merely the weather.

"I was asking if you found the season as enjoyable as my sister did."

"London is always an interesting diversion, but it's nice to be back home," Mary said, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

Anthony smiled again. "I too prefer the country. London living is far too tedious. My sister says she enjoys the theater too much to live elsewhere, but I must confess a play that will keep me awake beyond the first act has not yet been written."

Mary smiled politely and took a sip of her champagne.

Looking around, she noticed Matthew not too far away talking with Edith. As if she'd willed him to do so, Matthew looked up and their eyes met.

He smiled warmly and waved. Then just as quickly as he'd spotted her, he turned back to Edith.

Mary's expression softened with something like longing, and her heart tightened. It was a feeling that did not feel familiar or comfortable.

Jealousy.

She turned back toward Anthony, who was speaking again, and again, she wasn't listening.

Matthew and Edith were not getting married now—this much Mary knew. But they were close in a way that made Mary wonder whether they still might someday. As that image flashed across her mind, Mary once again felt the pang of regret that came whenever she thought about her unwillingness to give him a chance, when her parents had insisted. It had been a long time since those first few weeks when her anger and grief over the events that had brought Matthew into her life clouded their interactions. She believed they were proper friends now, and she'd come to enjoy their conversations. But still, she couldn't help but see that he remained a tiny bit wary with her in a way she could tell he wasn't with Edith or Sybil.

If she'd been listening to Anthony just then, Mary would have heard him stop speaking to her and greet someone who was coming up behind her. As it was, she was startled to see that it was the very person she'd been thinking about and the surprise was such that a slight blush came over her pale cheeks.

Matthew and Anthony exchanged pleasantries, having met earlier that afternoon. Not wanting it to seem as if he was overstepping his welcome with Mary, Anthony excused himself and left the two alone.

Turning to her, Matthew said, "I should apologize. It wasn't my intention to drive him off."

"Don't. I'm glad to be rid of him. His anecdotes were trying my patience."

Matthew's brow furrowed a bit, but he smiled. "I couldn't have guessed from looking at you, so you played your part very well."

Mary smiled. "Feining interest is a skill I come by rather easily, but even so I wish you wouldn't tease me. You have no idea how tedious it is to be a woman thought by everyone to be in dire need of a husband."

"Do _you_ think you need a husband?"

"That's a question for you to answer."

"Me?"

"Without a husband, I'll have no home but Downton, which becomes yours after papa is gone. If your plan is to turn me out, I suppose I'll have to marry eventually."

Matthew looked at her seriously. "Do you really think I would do that?"

Mary opened her mouth to say something else that was glib and cutting, but there was something behind his eyes that stopped her. "No, I know you wouldn't, but you will marry someday and you would do what your wife asked you to, even if it meant not being able to help me."

"You're wrong about that," he said quietly. "Downton will be your home as long as you choose. No matter what."

Mary smiled, slightly, a bit taken aback by his words. "Thank you."

They looked at one another for a long moment, then Matthew, eager to dissipate the sudden thickness in the air between them, looked around and saw that Edith had gone to talk with Cora.

Mary followed his eyes and said, "Mama seems to have focused her match-making attentions on Edith today. Would that it had happened sooner."

"Perhaps Edith will find a husband among the eligible suitors here," Matthew said.

"She can take the lot of them," Mary said, making Matthew laugh.

_Except_ , Mary thought looking at Matthew, _for you_.

* * *

 

Inside the kitchens, things continued to run smoothly throughout the afternoon, so smoothly, in fact, that one could forgive Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Branson for practically jumping out of their skin when, out of nowhere, a shrill sound unlike any they'd ever heard pierced the otherwise happy din emanating from the kitchen.

It was the telephone.

"Oh, my Lord, listen to that!" Cried Mrs. Patmore as the device rang. "It's like the cry of a banshee!"

Claire followed the sound into the butler's pantry. She poked her head back out and said, "It's Mr. Carson's telephone that's ringing."

Mrs. Patmore looked at Claire wondering what she was supposed to do with that information.

"Well, isn't anyone going to answer it?" Claire asked.

"I wouldn't touch that thing with a ten-foot pole!" Mrs. Patmore declared.

Claire rolled his eyes. "Well, I will then."

Walking back into the room, she looked at the device, guardedly. She'd seen Moseley make use of the one at Crawley House once, but was not entirely sure how exactly it worked.

Finally, she grabbed the earpiece and tentatively held it to her ear.

After a moment, a voice came through, so loudly that she almost dropped the piece in her hand.

"IS MR. CARSON THERE?"

Composing herself as quickly as she could, Claire picked up the mouthpiece and spoke into it.

"N-no, Mr. Carson is busy, but may I take a message?"

"This is Mr. Martin Bromidge with the telephone company, I wanted to let him know that the young lady who interviewed for a position has been accepted, so he could pass along the message. I've sent her a letter in the post today that should arrive tomorrow with details as to her job and salary. She'll be expected to start within a month."

"And what might the young lady's name be?" Claire asked.

"Miss Dawson. She was recommended by Lady Sybil," he answered.

Claire perked up recognizing the news she was receiving and how welcome it would be. "Oh, yes, I'll pass along the message. Thank you, very much, Mr. Bromidge."

With that, Claire hung up the phone. Stepping out of Carson's pantry, she saw Joseph, one of the hallboys, walking by and called out to him.

"Joseph, would you mind terribly, going out to the serving tent and telling Alfred to go fetch Mr. Branson."

Joseph nodded and did as he was told, and an excited and anxious Claire went to the yard outside to wait for her son.

When Alfred tapped Tom on the shoulder and told him he was needed in the house, Tom was still conversing with Mr. Bellasis, Imogen and Sybil. He excused himself and after stepping away, asked Alfred what the trouble was.

"I confess I don't know," Alfred answered. "All Joseph said was that there was a telephone call in the kitchen and that Mrs. Branson was looking for you."

Puzzled, Tom headed toward the service entrance, where his mother was waiting for him, but not before glancing back to the trio he'd left behind. He noticed that once he'd gone, Sybil had stepped away as well, confirming in his mind, what Sybil had been trying to do—or rather the spark that Sybil had been trying to light between Imogen and Mr. Bellasis.

He walked quickly around the house.

"Is there something wrong, mam?" He asked as he approached Claire.

He knew immediately that the answer was no, when he saw the grin on her face. "I have news!" She said excitedly.

"Out with it, then!"

"Mr. Bromidge called to say that he's taking on Miss Dawson!"

Tom's eyes widened. "Are you serious!?"

"He's written her a letter that'll arrive tomorrow, but he rung to share the news more quickly. I wanted to tell you first because I thought you might enjoy seeing the look on her face when you tell her."

Tom smiled. "That's kind of you, mam, but Gwen and I are not that close. You may tell her directly."

Claire rolled her eyes. "That's not the _her_ I'm talking about."

When it dawned on him that his mother had told him first, so he could share the news with _Sybil_ , he grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek, then set off running.

He spotted Sybil talking with Edith and two other young women. Not bothering with any niceties, he interrupted their conversation, touching Sybil's arm lightly and pulling slightly her away. She furrowed her brow in question, which he answered by leaning into her and whispering in her ear, "Gwen got the job."

The happiness in Sybil's face was unlike anything Tom had ever seen. The light that turned on inside her magnified and brightened a countenance that was already, in his mind, too beautiful to bear. But he only beheld it for a second before she was off and running, pulling him with her with a breathless, "Oh, sorry!" to the shocked women they left behind.

"How did you know?" She asked as she scanned the crowd for Gwen.

"He rang just now," Tom answered.

Finally, Sybil saw Gwen walking toward the service tent while holding a large tray. Sybil and Tom ran toward her, and Gwen, seeing them coming from the side of her eyes, turned in their direction.

"Mr. Bromidge has rung!" Sybil blurted out, quite unable to contain herself. "You've done it, Gwen, you got the job!"

If Lily, her fellow housemaid, had not walked by just then, Gwen might have heaved the tray she was holding up into the air in celebration. Thankfully, Lily did happen to be walking by, and Gwen thrust the tray at her, yelling, "TAKE IT! TAKE IT!"

Unburdened, Gwen saw fit to do nothing but leap into the waiting arms of the two people who had made her dream come true.

The embrace was joyful but short for no sooner had Tom and Sybil wrapped their arms around Gwen so tightly they lifted her clear off the ground, that Mrs. Hughes was upon them.

"Something to celebrate?" She asked, a warning in her tone.

"I got the job, Mrs Hughes!" Gwen said excitedly. "I'm a secretary! I've begun!"

"I'm very happy for you, Gwen. And we'll celebrate _after_ we've finished today's work."

Gwen nodded, remembering her place, and quickly said, "Of course, Mrs Hughes."

But even as she walked away, Gwen felt like she was walking on air. The Archbishop of Canterbury himself could chastise her right now, and she'd feel no sting. Because she'd done it. She was on her way.

Mrs. Hughes watched her go and then turned back to the young people in front of her, who were standing more closely together than Mrs. Hughes considered appropriate and were holding hands. Mrs. Hughes might have said something to them, but it was not her place.

Before she turned away again, it was Tom who spoke. "Deepest apologies, Mrs. Hughes. It was wrong to interrupt Gwen as she worked, but as you can imagine, it was news that was difficult to contain. Can you blame us when it made Gwen so happy?"

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "I can't blame you. I'll be sorry to see her go, for she was a good worker, but I thank you both for supporting her."

After Mrs. Hughes left them, Tom looked back to Sybil, who was still clutching his hand tightly.

Her face was beaming with happiness. "I don't suppose," she said, "that you'll be convinced to sneak away so that I may kiss you to thank you for letting me give her the news."

Tom thought his knees might buckle, hearing Sybil's words. "I'd love nothing more, but I'm afraid there are a few too many witnesses."

Sybil sighed, still radiating happiness. "You're probably right."

So the two turned back around and, letting go of one another, walked back to join the crowd.

Tom had been right. In fact, two people had witnessed what had just transpired from a distance and understood from what they'd seen the nature of Tom and Sybil's relationship. One was Cora. The other was Tom Bellasis. Both were left a little bit disappointed.

Thankfully, for all parties involved, the disappointment would eventually prove fleeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: The Balkan Wars, mentioned in the conversation between Robert, Anthony and Sir John Wilkes, were the preamble to WWI. Tom (and later Larry and Tom Bellasis) mentions a vote by House of Lords in June 1913 that rejected a Home Rule Bill for Ireland that was passed by the House of Commons. That vote was the third time that the Lords had rejected that bill. Eventually the Commons went straight to the king and the bill was passed by Royal Assent, but World War I started before the bill could be enacted. Also, as mentioned, as Earl of Grantham, Robert has a position in the House of Lords, but in this story he does not participate in politics and doesn't attend votes, at least in part because of his disillusionment stemming from having lost Downton.
> 
> I don't pretend to know anything beyond what anyone can find on wikipedia, when it comes to the historical backdrop of this story, so I apologize for any and all mistakes. No offense intended.


	33. Goodbye Gwen, Hello Anthony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is another one that I've had to split into two. It starts with Gwen's departure from Downton, then skips ahead a month and brings us to the preparations for the flower show, then the dinner with Anthony as guest. The next chapter will pick up in the drawing room after dinner and take us to the flower show itself. There is some Sybil/Tom as well as more M/M and the seeds of E/A starting to sprout. Lots of repurposed dialogue from the show, into which I've weaved in my own so that it fits with the circumstances as I have drawn them here.
> 
> One quick note. I know that in the last two chapters Cora has been a bit disappointing. There is a little more of that here with regard to the pressure she is putting on Mary to get married. Cora is not a bad person, but in her mind, success as a mother is marrying her daughters off to wealthy, titled men. If she didn't approve of Tom and Sybil right away, when Violet told her, it isn't because she dislikes Tom but because she always believed that Sybil's beauty would draw interest from society's richest, most eligible bachelors. She is frustrated by the fact that Sybil has chosen someone before she's had the chance to be introduced to such men. Violet accepts Tom because she knows Sybil would never have been interested in those men anyway. Cora feels she could have convinced Sybil to give them a chance in the same way she feels she can convince Mary to give Anthony a chance, despite Mary's protestations to the contrary.
> 
> Lastly, I want to point out that I think Laura Carmichael is gorgeous. The show did what it could to make her seem mousy. It's clear we're supposed to think she's pretty but not stunning the way Mary is and not a natural beauty like Sybil. So if I ever write anything acknowledging that, I just want people to know it's a reflection of who the character is supposed to be, not of the actress, who, again, is lovely.

 

Standing in the now half-empty room, Gwen could see that it was rather large in size. The bed was comfortable. She'd had her own desk. The wardrobe, though they'd had to share it, had easily accommodated their modest number of belongings. In truth, it was more than many people she knew could dream of.

She remembered clear as day walking in for the first time.

She was sixteen years old. In one hand she clutched tightly the small carpet bag that held everything she owned at the time. In the other a letter from her mother.

_If you work hard perhaps you shall rise to be a housekeeper or a lady's maid. Imagine that, my girl! Born in a one-room farmhouse, now at home in a castle._

Gwen laughed now as she thought of her mother, a mother whose lessons about hard work had started Gwen on a path that had brought her to this juncture. The mother had believed this room was the end. The daughter knew now that this room had only marked the beginning. The mother had not lived a life that allowed her to conceive of a future beyond this room. The daughter knew now that her mother's sacrifices amid such a life were what had given the daughter the ability to do so. And it had been the mother's words in that letter that had given the daughter the belief it could be done. For what was the difference, really, between believing that the child of a farmhand could grow up to be a secretary and believing she could grow up to be a lady's maid?

"Hey, now! What are those tears!? This is a happy moment!"

Gwen turned to see Anna at the door and quickly moved to wipe her cheeks.

"I didn't even notice I was crying," she said with a laugh.

"I'm the one that should be crying," Anna said. "You're off on a big adventure, and I'm left here with Lily, Madge, Alice and Kitty, and you know how they all are about pulling their weight."

Gwen sighed. "I've half a mind to stay. What if I'm rubbish as a secretary?"

"Stop it! You earned this. And anyway, arrangements have all been made. Mr. Pratt's outside waiting."

Gwen smiled. "This is goodbye, then?"

"No," Anna said, her own eyes now welling with tears. "Just see you later."

"See you later, then," Gwen said, stepping toward Anna. The two friends wrapped around each other and stood hugging and sniffling for a few minutes until Mrs. Hughes knocked on the open door.

"Come now, girls. It isn't the end of the world, just a parting."

Gwen wiped her cheeks again and walked to the door.

"Alfred took your bags down, yes?"

Gwen nodded. "Just myself that's left."

"Best get a move on, then."

"Thank you for everything you've done for me, Mrs. Hughes."

"You've done it all yourself, Gwen, and you should be very proud." As she spoke, Mrs. Hughes took a small linen handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to Gwen. Gwen turned it over in her hands and saw that her initials were embroidered on it. "You're going to need it," the housekeeper added with a smile.

Gwen took the small token and, with Mrs. Hughes and Anna on her heels, walked down the stairs to the servants hall. Once there, Gwen saw the whole staff lined up to see her off. The lump in her throat and the pain behind her eyes growing as she said her goodbye to people she had come to see as closer than her own family. At the end of the row was Carson, wearing what could only be described as the proud but melancholy smile of a father sending his first child out into the world.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

Gwen turned for one last look, but the crowd had already begun to disperse. In the life of service, time stopped for a few, but it never stopped for long.

Walking out into the yard, Gwen noticed that Carson was heading toward the front of the house.

"Shouldn't we be going toward the garage, Mr. Carson?" Gwen asked.

"Follow me, please," Carson answered.

As they came around the turn in the path toward the front entrance of Downton Abbey, the motor came into view. Pratt was loading a small trunk that Gwen did not recognize onto the back of the motor and Gwen wondered if she'd be riding into Ripon, where her new job and home awaited, with a guest of the house. But as she turned her eyes from the motor to the door, she saw.

The whole family—including the Dowager Countess, Mrs. Crawley, Mr. Matthew and Mr. Branson—had lined up to see her off.

The sight had stopped her in her tracks, and Carson, seeing that he'd left her several strides behind, turned and gestured for her to approach Robert.

Trying to summon all that was left of her composure, Gwen stepped forward.

"Th-thank you, your lordship," she stammered out, "for the opportunity."

Robert smiled, taking her hand and placing in it a thick envelope. "Your wages, Miss Dawson, and a small gift from the family."

Gwen nodded, unable to speak, tears now flowing freely and unabated. She felt Carson's hand on her shoulder and let him guide her past Cora and Violet to Mary, who was holding a large white box tied with a silver ribbon.

"There are several suits in the trunk you take with you from our wardrobes that Anna adjusted to your measurements," Mary said, Edith and Sybil nodding next to her. "But this," Mary added, lifting the box, "is new."

Carson came around Gwen and took the parcel from Mary and handed it to Pratt who placed it on the front seat of the motor.

"I don't know what to say," Gwen said quietly.

"Say you'll wear it on your first day," Sybil said. Gwen looked at her friend's eyes and saw now that they were as full of tears as her own.

"I will," Gwen said, smiling.

Sybil, knowing that her parents would have thought it inappropriate but not caring, stepped forward and threw her arms around Gwen, who, despite what propriety might have taught _her_ to do, could do nothing but return the hug.

"Dear friend, What shall I do without you?" Sybil said through her sobs.

"Find another creature to rescue."

The two young women laughed as they pulled away. Carson stepped to Gwen again to move her along, and Edith put her arm around Sybil, whose tears were flowing freely.

Gwen next moved to Mrs. Crawley, who took her hand in both of hers. "Your room is all arranged with Mrs. Goddard, who will be waiting for you. All of her boarders are young working women like yourself, so you will find some kindred spirits."

"Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Crawley."

"Keep in touch, dear, and let us know how you are getting on."

Gwen nodded and stepped forward in front of Matthew who was smiling encouragingly, then Tom, who held out his hand.

Gwen shook it and he leaned in and said quietly, "The urge will be strong, but it'll do no good to look back, Miss Dawson."

Gwen nodded again and felt Carson tap her shoulder. He looked down at the row of people one last time, then walked over to the motor. With Pratt's help, she climbed aboard on the front seat and held the parcel with her new suit on her lap, a treasure most dear. She took a deep breath as he went around the front of the motor to the driver's side.

When the car started moving down the driveway toward the gate, Gwen thought about looking back to the house one more time, but heeding Tom's advice, she kept her eyes on the road ahead.

Eventually, as they made their way through the village toward the road to Ripon, Gwen no longer felt preoccupied by what she was leaving behind her and and instead began to anticipate what was ahead. When they arrived at the boarding house where Isobel had arranged for a room for Gwen, the tears had long dried and nothing marked her face but an eager smile.

She stepped off the motor just as Mrs. Goddard came down the front steps of the house.

"Welcome, my dear," Mrs. Goddard said, smiling. "Are you ready for the big adventure?"

* * *

 

**August 1913**

It was Saturday.

The weekend, not a weekday.

Sybil was at her and Tom's secret spot, sitting alone on the bank of the creek, wishing the distinction meant something in her life. For Sybil, Saturday was a day just like any other. Her 18th birthday was a few days away and it, too, she believed, would feel no different. All of her days blurred together now, her life as unchanging and unsatisfying as it had ever felt. More so now that her best friend was gone. Gwen had not moved very far, but figuratively speaking, she was worlds away.

_She would be home from work today_ , Sybil thought. _Having a proper rest after a long week. Perhaps going on an interesting outing that she's been looking forward to for several days._

Sybil sighed and hoped that Gwen was enjoying the new life she had worked so hard for. Sybil didn't want to intrude upon that life, not yet, but she missed Gwen dearly. Far more than Sybil had believed she would.

Sybil had been prepared for not seeing her friend on a daily basis but what she did not anticipate was the emptiness that came from not scouring the papers for secretarial positions, not writing letters on Gwen's behalf, not talking with Gwen about whether or when they would receive a response to an inquiry, not helping Gwen prepare for an upcoming interview. It took Gwen's dream coming true for Sybil to see how intensely she had internalized that dream as her own.

_Your dream is my dream now, and I'll make it come true._

She had told Gwen that once, and she'd meant it with all her heart. But the reality of that dream was for Gwen alone to live out. Sybil was happy for her friend, but she could not help but feel left behind.

Sybil didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, or how many errant tears she'd felt slide down her face, when she heard footsteps behind her. She smiled, without turning around, knowing who it would be. They hadn't made plans to meet on this particular afternoon, but as was true anytime Sybil found herself walking in the direction of the creek, she had hoped they'd both end up here.

Tom sat down beside her, and she leaned into his shoulder with a sigh.

"Still missing Gwen, I take it," he said, placing a soft kiss atop her head.

Sybil nodded, then turned toward him. He leaned in so their heads were touching. "I'm sorry it's been so hard on you."

"Selfish though this may sound, as much as I miss Gwen—and I do—my sadness is made more acute by my sudden lack of purpose."

"There's five other maids at the house," Tom said, jokingly. "Maybe you can help one of them?"

"I think they steer clear of me to avoid that very fate." She sighed, then sitting up so she could look him in the eyes, she added, "I was thinking I might volunteer at the hospital with Isobel."

Tom perked up at this. "Really? I think she would love it!"

Sybil nodded. "I went almost every week with her or granny when everyone was gone to London. I know those two are always fighting about who's in charge, but I'd not get in the middle of that. And I don't imagine that I'll be allowed to do anything really interesting like actual nursing, but I don't know . . . I could fold sheets or something. Mama and papa wouldn't be opposed to that, surely."

"If they put up a fight, I'm sure Aunt Isobel would fight your corner with them. My opinion carries less weight now, but so would I."

Sybil smiled.

"But you could do it, you know," Tom said tentatively. "Be a nurse."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not. You could go to a training college—there's even a school of medicine for women in London if you wanted to be a doctor. I know you think you don't have the intellect or educational background for serious study, but as I've told you before, cleverness comes from having the will to learn and you've got that in spades."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Sybil."

"I know you are, and I treasure your belief in me, but I'll not ask for the moon yet. Not when I don't even know if I can have the stars."

"Come by the house this week, in any case. You can borrow Uncle Reg's old medical texts and see if you really have an interest in it."

"Well, I do find old books comforting. I suppose that reading up on a new subject will help the tedium, if nothing else."

Tom smiled at her, and Sybil leaned in again and whispered, "Do you think we've waited the appropriate time since you arrived to share a kiss?"

Tom brought his arm around her and pulled her into him. "When it comes to you and kisses, I've afraid my thoughts are never what one would call appropriate."

Sybil let out loud laugh, which he silenced with his lips. The kiss began soft and gentle, but eventually deepened and grew passionate. Finding her position a bit uncomfortable, Sybil finally pushed Tom and herself down against the grass, which was warm from the August heat, without breaking their kiss. Tom shifted so he was partially on top of her, allowing Sybil to run her fingers through his thick hair, something she'd discovered that she loved doing. After a few minutes, he pulled back and lay back on the grass next to her. They turned their heads toward each other and smiled at one another.

Since they'd kissed for the first time, Tom was always cognizant of her age and inexperience in matters of love and the line those two things marked that he could not, would not, yet cross. She could sense that he sometimes held himself back, but never remarked upon it. She knew that he was giving her time to ease into this new territory they were exploring together, and she was grateful for it, but she was also eager to push the boundaries and to know what lay beyond.

"Do you think it will always feel like the way it feels now?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," he answered. "All I know is that I don't want the feeling to ever go away."

Sybil rolled over and placed a light peck on his lips before settling her head against his chest. "Neither do I."

* * *

 

While Sybil and Tom spent time together in the woods by the house, Mary was in the village with her mother and grandmother to see the final preparations for the flower show the following afternoon. The flower show had been one of her favorite events when she was growing up, and to this day, the strong fragrance of roses brought with it happy memories of her childhood.

She'd be in a better mood now if her mother hadn't informed her in the motor on the way over that Sir Anthony Strallan would be joining the family for dinner.

_How many times am I to be ordered to marry the man sitting next to me at dinner?_ had been Mary's response to the news.

_As many times as it takes,_ had been her mother's response to her.

They hadn't exchanged words since.

Mary supposed her mother would think her petulant, but she was past the point of caring what her mother thought. Mary had been clear to Cora regarding her lack of interest in Anthony, and if Mary was going to be ignored, then she saw no recourse but to repay her mother in kind.

As Mary walked around the village hall, she could hear the voices of Violet and Isobel, not arguing per se, but still at odds over whether the committee would feel inclined to give the Grantham Cup for best bloom to anyone but Violet. Certainly, Mary didn't remember anyone else winning it in her lifetime, but her grandmother wouldn't be convinced it was for any reason other than merit. At dinner the previous evening, Violet had informed the family that Isobel had taken up the cause of old Mr. Moseley, the father of the Crawley House butler. And looking at Mr. Moseley's stall now, Mary couldn't deny the beauty of his work.

_But who would dare suggest that the product of the Dowager House garden was not the very best?_ Mary thought, smiling to herself, finding a bit of silliness in the pride Violet took in work that was not her own, but her gardener's. Mary could only assume that the Downton gardener—which was to say, her mother—would carry the cup someday, but not until Violet was long gone from the world.

Mary stepped closer to Mr. Moseley's stall, where his son was busy helping him.

"Do look at Mr. Molesley's display," Isobel said, seeing Mary approach and apparently undeterred in her allegiance. "He's worked so hard."

"Rather marvellous, aren't they?"

Mary turned and saw Matthew coming up behind her. She hadn't realized he'd arrived, but smiled, happy to see him.

Turning back around, she said, "Lovely. Well done, Mr. Molesley."

"Thank you, milady," he replied

"I think everyone is to be congratulated," Violet said from her spot two stalls away. "Splendid."

Isobel, Matthew and Mary turned to her.

"But do look at these roses," Isobel said. "Have you ever seen the like?"

"My dear Mrs. Crawley continues to insist I'm profiting from an unfair advantage," Violet said to Cora, who had just walked up behind her. Violet was not particularly amused. "She feels, in the past, I've been given the cup merely as a matter of routine rather than merit."

"That's rather ungallant, mother," Matthew said, turning to Isobel. "I'm sure when we see Cousin Violet's roses tomorrow, it'll be hard to think they could be bettered."

"Hard, but not impossible," was Isobel's reply.

"You are quite wonderful the way you see room for improvement wherever you look," Violet said. "I never knew such reforming as you."

Isobel smiled. "I take that as a compliment," she said, turning to move on to another stall.

Violet laughed lightly. "I must've said it wrong."

Mary and Matthew looked at each other and snickered.

"Poor Granny," Mary said, as they ambled by the neighboring stalls together. "She's not used to being challenged."

"Nor is mother," he said with a smile. "I think we should let them settle it between them."

"So, are you interested in flowers?" Mary asked, genuinely curious.

"I'm interested in the village. In fact, I'm on my way to see the cottages that we rebuilt last year. I call on the caretaker every so often to see how the former tenants are getting on."

"You know what all work and no play did for Jack."

"You think I'm a dull boy anyway, don't you? I play, too."

Mary raised her eyebrows playfully and looked at him with an enigmatic smile on her face that caused him to look down a bit bashfully. It happened whenever he would try flirting with her. She would give him a look or smile that completely disarmed him and whatever bravado he'd been able to muster would be gone just like that. Matthew had never been around a woman quite like Mary. Being in her vicinity, he sometimes felt like he was a traveler in a foreign land with no knowledge of the language nor a map to guide him and left to discover only at random whatever treasures that lay ahead. It was a stark contrast to his interaction with Lavinia, with whom he'd always shared an easy and predictable rapport. Matthew was confident that he and Mary were friends now, but she remained a bit of a puzzle to him. The more pieces were revealed, the more complex the puzzle grew, and the more interested Matthew became.

"Tom and I are coming up for dinner tonight," he said after a moment. "I suspect we're there to balance the numbers. Is it in aid of anything?"

Mary sighed. "The eternally fruitless labor of finding me a husband, I'm afraid. But I'm having none of it. I wish I could at least tell you that you might find the company interesting, but it's just a dreary neighbor, that's all."

Matthew narrowed his eyes at her as if trying to decipher something. Perhaps he saw what he was after. Perhaps not. But he took the leap anyway.

"Maybe I'll shine by comparison," he said.

At that moment, Violet walked up to them. "Mary, we're going."

Mary turned to follow her grandmother. She'd not gone four steps, when she turned again and said to him, "Maybe you will."

Matthew himself couldn't see it, but if Tom had been there at that moment, he'd have told Matthew that the smile on his face was brighter than any smile of Matthew's had been in some time.

* * *

 

That evening, Sybil and Edith came into Mary's room to finish getting ready for dinner to make things easier on Anna, who in Gwen's absence had to contend with seeing to all three of them again. Anna had already gone back to the servants hall, and Sybil and Edith were waiting on Mary to finish up.

"Did you hear about granny and Isobel's latest tiff?" Mary asked as she rifled through her jewelry box.

"Oh, dear," Sybil said sitting on Mary's bed, a copy of Austen's Emma open on her lap. "It's not something to do with the hospital again, is it?"

"You know how granny always wins the flower show?" Mary began. "It seems Cousin Isobel thinks it's all a fix."

"Well, isn't it?" Edith said, from the armchair near the window.

"Perhaps," Mary said, picking up a broach and putting it on, "but do _you_ want to have that discussion with granny?"

Edith laughed. "No, I should say not."

"Seems a bit selfish of granny to always expect to be the winner," Sybil said.

"Only a bit?" Mary said, arching her eyebrow. "You must be in a forgiving mood this evening."

"Aren't I always?" Sybil asked playfully.

Mary turned to look at Sybil with a smile. "Far more often than I would be, anyway."

Mary turned back around to look at herself in the mirror, and there was a light knock on the door.

"It's probably, mama," Edith said, standing up. "We should go down before Sir Anthony arrives."

"Come in," Mary called out, then, addressing Edith, added, "What interest could you possibly have in who's coming to dinner?"

"Sir Anthony and I spoke at the garden party," Edith replied, just as their mother was walking into the room. "He was very nice."

"Don't tell me he sparked your interest?" Mary asked, with a laugh.

"What if he did?" Edith asked, chin up.

"Girls, please," Cora said, immediately standing between them. "Sybil, Edith, will you please let your sister and I have a word."

Wordlessly, the two filed out of the room.

Mary turned back to her mirror. "Does this broach work? I can't decide."

"It's charming," Cora said flatly, not bothering to look at it.

Mary rolled her eyes on hearing her mother's tone. "Oh, dear, is it another scolding?"

"Of course not. You're too grown up to scold these days."

"Heavens," Mary said with a mirthless laugh, "then it's really serious."

Ignoring her daughter's comments, Cora said, "I'd like you to look after Sir Anthony Strallan tonight. He's a nice, decent man. His position may not be quite like papa's, but it would still make you a force for good in the county."

"Mama, not again. I spoke with him at the garden party and have told you he doesn't interest me. What more must I do?"

"You must _try_ , Mary. That is what you haven't been doing."

Mary straightened and turned to face her mother, in an effort to impress her point. "I turned down Matthew, mama. Is it likely I'd marry Strallan when I wouldn't marry him?"

"I'm glad you've come to think more highly of Cousin Matthew."

"That's not the point," Mary said, turning away exasperated.

"No. The point is that every year your pride gets in the way of a match, the harder it gets to find anyone willing to sit next to _you_ at dinner, let alone ask for your hand. What do you think will happen when your father is gone? Everything you see around you goes to Matthew and you will be forced to live off the kindness of people who owe you nothing. Is that the life that you want?"

Mary's mind went to the promise Matthew had made her at the garden party. She felt the sincerity of his offer in her heart even now. Perhaps it was just a dream, but it was one she wanted to hold on to.

"Mary—"

"I know you mean to help," Mary cut in. "I know you love me. But I also know what I'm capable of, and forty years of boredom and duty just isn't possible for me. I'm sorry."

"I do love you, and I want to help," Cora said, her voice softening.

"Well, then let me be. Why not concentrate on Edith? She needs all the help she can get."

"You mustn't be unkind to Edith. She has fewer advantages than you."

Mary snorted. "Fewer? She has none at all." Mary moved toward the door. "Mama, I don't want to keep having this conversation. Are we going down or not?"

Cora sighed sadly. "Lead the way."

* * *

 

The conversation at dinner wasn't particularly lively, seeing as the topic was primarily farming and Anthony's efforts to modernize his estate, much in the same way that Tom and Matthew had done for Downton. But the guest of honor seemed to be enjoying himself nonetheless. To Cora's continuing frustration, Mary had done little to engage Anthony, but he didn't seem bothered. Edith had peppered him with questions about new machinery he'd purchased for the running of his farms, showing a surprising knowledge on the subject, which she admitted stemmed from her interest in cars.

"Seems a rare interest for a lady such as yourself and your sisters," Anthony said, though not unkindly.

"Edith is actually crack driver," Tom said. "Though with a bit too heavy a foot."

Anthony turned toward Edith with his eyebrows raised. "Impressive," he said, quietly. "I don't think I'd have guessed."

Edith's cheeks blushed ever so slightly. "It's just something I like to do."

"Me as well," Anthony said.

After he spoke, there was a lull in the conversation for several moments, and he looked down to his food, a bit embarrassed and wondering if he'd said the wrong thing. In the silence, Anthony heard the voice of his sister in his head reminding him of the young lady he was here to court. He turned toward Mary, who'd barely said two words to him all night, preferring instead to converse with her cousin—the man Anthony now knew to be her father's heir—sitting on the other side of her. He looked up again at Edith, across from him, but she was looking down now too, with a look on her face that suggested she also believed she'd done the wrong thing by speaking to him.

Cora was about to ask Anthony another question, but Sybil beat her to the punch.

"I wonder Sir Anthony, since you talk of modernization, Matthew and Tom have also made changes in support of the tenants so that they may be their own masters and own their own land in the future. Will you be making such changes?"

"Don't be impertinent, Sybil," her mother said, "Sir Anthony, you are under no obligation to discuss your private business affairs to that degree."

"The machinery may be Edith's interest, but the people are mine," Sybil said.

"We know where you'll have learned that," Robert said pointedly, looking askance at the end of the table where she and Tom were sitting next to one another.

"In the library, of course," Sybil said, in a sweet tone that all at the table save Anthony understood to be sarcastic. "It's the only place I learn anything."

"Please don't concern yourself, Lady Grantham," Anthony said. "There's no harm in the question. To answer you, Lady Sybil, I'd say that the tenants may help themselves by learning to incorporate these new machines into their daily work. The skills will prove long useful. There's no doubt about it. The next few years in farming are going to be about mechanisation. That's the test, and we're going to have to meet it. Don't you agree, Lady Mary?"

"Yes, of course, Sir Anthony. I'm sure I do," Mary said, turning back to Matthew after she'd spoken and rolling her eyes as if to communicate her boredom. Matthew's shoulders shook a bit as he tried to keep in his laughter. He knew it was wrong to encourage her cavalier behavior, but he'd found that the less Mary was concerned with what was expected of her the more he liked her.

"Sir Anthony," Edith spoke up again. "It must be so hard to meet the challenge of the future and yet be fair to your employees."

"That is the point precisely," he replied. "We can't fight progress, but we must find ways to soften the blow."

Edith glanced briefly at her mother, then said, "I should love to see one of the new harvesters, if you would ever let me."

"I should be delighted," Anthony answered quickly, a light coming alive in his eyes that warmed Edith's heart.

She knew that he'd been invited for Mary, but she'd been taken by his attention and interest in her questions and found herself wanting more of it. Despite a keenly romantic nature, aside for Patrick, Edith was not one for flights of fancy when it came to the opposite sex. She had not been on the receiving end of a great deal of flattery, the practice of which felt false to her anyway. Anthony might have told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world, but it would mean more that he listened to her and looked at her in way that suggested it was his choice to do so, not his duty. And despite his intentions regarding Mary that was precisely what he'd done with Edith all through dinner.


	34. Mary's Mr. Knightley

 

"Hmmmm."

Mary raised her eyebrows at the sounds Anthony was making while eating—and obviously enjoying—his pudding.

"Truly delicious!"

"You don't say," Mary said to Matthew in a low voice.

"Well, in his defense, it _is_ very good," Matthew answered quietly.

"You're supposed to be on _my_ side," Mary whispered back, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.

"This is a truly divine pudding, Lady Grantham," Anthony said. "Please give my compliments to the cook."

Cora smiled. "Carson, please let Mrs. Patmore know that her Apple Charlotte was delightful."

"She'll be pleased to hear it, milady," Carson answered.

Cora looked back to Anthony. "I shouldn't give her all the credit, though, Sir Anthony. Your sister was the one who sent us the recipe. She said it was a favorite of yours."

"Indeed, Lady Grantham," Anthony responded warmly. "Delilah is very good to look out for me as she does. The job is mine as elder brother to look after _her_ , but such has been our lot from the start."

"How wonderful to have such a _caring_ sister," Edith said, her particular emphasis on the word 'caring' not lost on Mary.

"I quite agree. How nice to have someone who cares instead of _covets_ ," was Mary's answer, delivered with a smile that could cut glass.

"Well, gentlemen," Cora cut in before the tension between her daughters became apparent to the family's guest. "There was so much talk of business at dinner, I dare say I don't know what you'll be discussing when we've gone."

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Robert said, smiling.

"Milady," Carson said, signaling that he was ready to lead the women through the hall to parlor.

"Thank you, Carson," Cora said standing. Violet, Mary, Edith and Sybil likewise stood and followed. Tom, as had become his custom, did as well, feeling Robert's eyes on him as he walked out of the room. Instead of following the women down the hall into the parlor, however, Tom turned left toward the entrance hall to the library, where he picked up a volume on British trade with the Far East and waited for Sybil eventually to join him.

Sure enough, only after a few minutes had passed, he heard footsteps and stood from where he'd sat on the sofa and turned toward the door.

But it wasn't Sybil.

"I'm sorry," Edith said, a bit taken by surprise. "I didn't know anyone was here."

She watched Tom. The expression on his face suggested he'd been expecting someone, but he quickly collected himself and approached her with an easy smile.

"Not to worry. You surprised me, but I was just reading." He lifted the book as if to offer proof.

Edith looked down at her hands and fidgeted for a moment. She hadn't counted on anyone being here, and now wasn't sure what to do or say.

"Can I help you with something?" Tom asked, seeing hesitation in her stance.

"Well, it's just . . . I, um. I came to look for a book."

"Oh, don't let me stop you," Tom answered, gesturing with his hand for her to come all the way into the room.

"No, I mean—not a specific book . . . at least. I'm not sure what to look for."

"Do you have a subject?"

Edith looked down again, and Tom noticed a bit of a blush coming over her cheeks. "Agrarian economics."

Tom was momentarily surprised, but then he thought back to the conversation at dinner, and it became clear. She wanted to find a book to show Anthony. Tom smiled widely. "Would you like me to suggest something?"

Edith looked up again with a smile of relief on her face. "Oh, would you? I don't know nearly so much as you might. Something very interesting to grab his attention, but not so interesting that he'll shove me aside and start reading on the spot."

Tom laughed at her enthusiasm. "Let's have a look, shall we?" He guided her over to the appropriate shelves and started perusing. "Matthew has added to Robert's books on the subject since we've been here, so there's quite a bit to choose from."

He pulled a thin book off the shelf. "How about this: It's Henry Charles Taylor. He's American and exceedingly intelligent. He was at the London School of Economics for a spell so he knows farming in this country."

Edith took the book and looked at the title. "The Decline of Landowning Farmers in England."

She looked back at Tom with her brow furrowed. "Doesn't sound promising."

"It's mostly a history, but quite vivid in detail. Though, I suppose it's not very kind to your intended audience," Tom said taking back the book and slipping it back into the shelf.

"You're always trying to sneak your ideas into things," Edith said playfully.

"Sometimes it's the only way to convince someone of something," he said, perusing the titles once again.

"But if you don't tell them outright what you'd like for them to understand, they won't know to credit you for changing their mind, will they."

Tom smirked. "Fair point . . . here we are. Agricultural Mechanization and Its Advantages: 1850-1900."

Edith beamed. "Right on the money! Do you think they'll have passed through by now?"

Tom turned to look at the clock. "Not quite yet, so you'll have time to familiarize yourself with it."

Edith hugged the book to herself and smiled. "Thank you."

"Good luck," Tom said with a wink, and Edith turned to go.

Tom returned the book he'd taken to read to its shelf and intended to head to the parlor when he heard someone else come in. This time, it _was_ Sybil.

"What did Edith want?" Sybil asked coming over to him.

"Didn't you ask her?"

"Oh no, I hid. I didn't want her to see me coming in to see you."

Tom grinned as Sybil wrapped her arms around him and stood up on her toes to kiss him. Tom welcomed her advance eagerly. They kissed for several minutes. Tom pulled her closer and closer into himself, and Sybil responded to the passion she felt in his embrace with quiet gasps and moans. She loved kissing him. After the first time, Sybil assumed that the more she did it, the more mundane and ordinary it would become, but that had hardly been the case. In some ways, kissing felt like taking long gulps of a deliciously intoxicating drink that, rather than quenching your thirst or appetite, only left you wanting more.

The feeling was not much different for him. But on this night, something about seeing Edith's interest in someone that Tom was sure would meet the approval of Robert and Cora—and something about Edith calling Tom "sneaky"—had given him pause, and when he pulled away, Sybil noticed.

"Is everything all right?" She asked, her hands still holding on to his shoulders.

"Do you feel as if we're doing something wrong? By not telling anyone that we're . . ."

"In love?"

Tom grinned at the words, and she grinned back. They had not yet specifically spoken the words "I love you," but the sentiment had been implied and hinted at in every other possible way. And that had been enough for them both, underscoring the connection that had existed between them almost from the start as well as the way their friendship had grown beyond the normal boundaries of aristocratic expectation.

"Yes," he said, in agreement. "Do you?"

Sybil's smile softened. "I'll admit that I don't like deceit, but I don't believe that we're deceiving anyone . . . exactly. We're working within our circumstances. You and papa aren't speaking at the moment, but I know his anger will pass. When it does, and when June comes next year, it'll be better and we'll tell them our plans. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong with enjoying one another's company. Surely, I can't be expected to keep my hands to myself now that I know what the opposite is like."

Tom laughed softly. "I see I've created a monster."

"No. The monster was always inside. You just woke her up." Sybil looked at him for a long moment. "I wish I could believe I've made you feel better, but I'm not sure I have."

Tom stepped away from her embrace, but caught her hands in his and led her to sit down on the sofa. "Since I told the family about my mam, I've been trying to keep quiet whenever I'm here. At dinner or when we're here for tea or I'm in the library looking over the books with Matthew, Robert will say something that I think invites comment, but I'll hold back afraid to stir the waters any more than I already have."

"That isn't like you," Sybil said quietly.

"Not at all," he said with a mirthless laugh. "And I fear it's starting to wear on me. I don't want to make things more difficult for you or us with your parents—more so than I am sure they will already be—but I don't want our future happiness to come at the expense of who I am."

"Do you believe that's what _I_ want?!"

"No! At least . . . I rather hope not."

"Tom, perhaps I've not had an opportunity to make it clear before, but this life of false veneers and politeness and manners, it's _not_ the life I want. I don't want to make trouble for my parents, but I won't have them tell me what to do and certainly not who I shall marry. If they disapprove then, so be it, but please don't _acquiesce_ on my account. I want them to know you as the stubborn socialist you are . . as the person I love—even if that means they don't like you very much."

Tom let out a deep breath that he felt he'd been holding in for the past month and pulled her into his arms once again, falling in love with her and her rebellious spirit, all over again. He pulled back slightly and cradled her face in his hands.

"Oh my darling, please never doubt of how wholeheartedly I love you."

Sybil answered him with a kiss. "I'm sorry this has been troubling you," she said. "I wish we'd spoked on it sooner."

"Since I kissed you the first time, when we're alone neither of us has been inclined to do much talking."

Sybil snickered. "I won't complain about that."

"We should go back," Tom said with a soft smile.

"Why?" Sybil asked playfully. "You don't want them to _worry_?"

"No, I don't want to feel like I'm avoiding them anymore."

Sybil smiled and stood. "May I ask what brought all this on? Obviously, this has been bothering you for sometime, but did something happen tonight?"

"I believe Edith has feelings for Sir Anthony," Tom said standing.

"Really!" Sybil exclaimed as the two headed out of the room toward the other end of the house. "He does seem like a nice man. Not at all suited for Mary, but it's not too much of a surprise that Edith has taken a shining to him. What does that have to do with you?"

"She asked me to pick out a book that would spark his interest, and in the process told me not to be so sneaky."

"I suppose that's good advice, but I do so like sneaking around with you."

Tom laughed. "My assumption has always been that I would be a bad influence on you, but I rather think it is the other way around."

* * *

 

After Edith had left Tom in the library, she'd headed back to the parlor, meeting Matthew on her way there. He'd declined a cigar this evening, so left Robert and Anthony to finish theirs after he'd drunk the last of his brandy. A part of him was inclined to spend as much of this night as he could with Mary, feeling as if there'd been something of a breakthrough between them since their moment in the village hall earlier in the day.

_Maybe I'll shine by comparison._

_Maybe you will._

It was the most either of them had acknowledged about any possible feelings between them beyond the existing bonds of distant kinship. He didn't know where it would lead, but he was nonetheless eager for the journey.

Seeing Edith smiling as he approached, Matthew thought of her warning ages ago that he'd eventually fall in love with Mary. At the time, he thought Edith was teasing him, but in the many months since Edith had made that proclamation, Matthew had been privy to her keen powers of observation. She was a quick judge of character and thoughtful in the way people who often find themselves alone in crowded rooms often are.

"Hello," Matthew said approaching her. "What have you go there?"

Edith looked down at the book she was still hugging to her chest. "Something that Tom picked out for me."

"May I?" Matthew asked extending his hand to see the book.

Edith pursed her lips but handed it over. "Please don't laugh."

But on seeing the title, Matthew didn't laugh and only offered a sympathetic smile. "So you like him very much then?"

"What makes you say that?" Edith asked taking the book back.

"It's an exceedingly tedious topic. I can only imagine your interest stems from the joy the conversation might bring, and not the subject itself."

Edith looked down bashfully. "I know I'll have a scolding from mama since he's here for Mary, but I dare say he likes me more . . . hard as that may be for everyone to believe."

"I believe it."

"Really? I mean, you think he might fancy _me_?"

"Well, I do not know him well, and I'm hardly the best judge of such things, but he seemed more taken by your efforts at conversation than hers."

"She wasn't really trying."

"In this case, I think the extent of her effort is less important than the result, which was clearly in your favor. Perhaps you should ask him to take a drive with you."

Edith rolled her eyes. "Now, you're just having fun with me."

Matthew laughed and offered his arm, so they could walk into the parlor together. Matthew saw that Isobel and Violet were talking, and leaning into Edith, he said, "Given how things are bound to go at the flower show tomorrow I best serve as intermediary between those two before it comes to blows."

Edith laughed as she watched him go.

"I suppose you're quite pleased with yourself."

She turned and saw Mary next to her. Edith hadn't seen the look on her sister's face when Edith walked into the room on Matthew's arm. (Indeed, only one person had. Isobel happened to turn at just the right moment, and she wondered whether Mary, with all her airs, had somehow grown fond of the man she had once dismissed as beneath her. Isobel would not mention it to Matthew. She knew complications between them would be aplenty, even without her meddling.)

Mary never fancied herself in love with anyone, and she wasn't precisely sure that's what she was feeling now. But it wasn't anger or annoyance that she felt when she saw Edith and Matthew. It was sadness, a feeling that signaled to her that while she could convince herself to accept a life without a husband, she did not want to accept a life in which he was not also single. And certainly not one in which he was married to her sister. At this point, having spurned the idea before, Mary could not believe a marriage between herself and Matthew might still be possible. Still, she could hope that he might also choose not to marry—the future of the earldom be damned.

But the sting of jealousy was strong, especially after a dinner during which she'd enjoyed his company so much. So when he stepped away from Edith, the lesser angels in Mary's nature, those for whom Edith presented such an easy target, sharpened their arrows once again.

"What do you mean?" Edith asked defensively, setting the book down on the table next to her.

"Talk of tractors really stirs the senses. Who knew _you_ could be capable of such flirting?"

Edith set her jaw, not wanting to let Mary spoil her evening.

Mary was about say something else, when Cora came up behind her.

"You were very helpful, Edith, looking after Sir Anthony. You saved the day."

Edith smiled again, proud that she'd made a positive impression on her mother. "I enjoyed it. We seem to have a lot to talk about."

"I'm glad he made a good impression, my darling," Cora said, before moving on, having seen Robert come into the room and walking over to him.

Mary rolled her eyes and, when Cora was out of earshot, added, "Spare me your boasting, please."

"Now who's jealous?"

"Jealous? Do you think I couldn't have that old booby if I wanted him?"

"Even you can't take every prize."

"Is that a challenge?" Mary asked with a smirk.

"If you like," Edith answered, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt just then.

As it happened, the sisters didn't have long to wait to see which way Anthony's inclinations could be pulled more easily, for just after Robert had come into the parlor, Tom and Sybil returned, and just after them, Anthony entered, only moments after Edith had spoken.

When Robert had come in, he'd spoken briefly to Cora, then walked over to Matthew. Robert had noticed how much closer Matthew and Mary had seemed lately and wondered whether it was too late to hope that there might still be a match between them and that Mary might end up as countess after all.

Seeing Robert approach, Matthew smiled.

"I hope dinner was to your liking," Robert said.

"Since you sent her to the surgeon in London, Mrs. Patmore's cooking has certainly taken quite a turn for the better."

Robert smiled. "In retrospect it's a wonder that it took so long to spot the problem."

Robert took a sip of his drink and added, "I'm glad you and Mary are getting along. There's no reason you can't be friends."

Matthew smiled. "No reason at all."

Robert looked at Matthew and asked carefully, "I don't suppose there's any chance that you could sort of . . . start again?"

"Life is full of surprises."

After he spoke, Matthew turned to look at Mary again. That was the moment Anthony had walked in.

If Mary had noticed Matthew looking at her and looked back at him, she'd have seen something in his eyes that would have made her forget the jealousy she felt when he'd walked into the room with Edith. Indeed, she'd have realized she had no reason to be jealous. If that had been the case, things might have unfolded much more easily between Matthew and Mary.

But she didn't catch his eyes.

Instead, her eyes were on the door through which Sir Anthony Strallan had just walked.

And for no reason other than to prove herself right, in a fit of jealousy that was entirely unfounded, Mary called Anthony over. "Ah, I've been waiting for you," she said, picking up the book that Edith had brought in from the table on which Edith had left it. "I found a book over here, and I think it's just the thing to catch your interest."

Anthony smiled, surprised. "I'm intrigued. What is it to be?"

"Well, I was looking in the library and . . ." She trailed off, not needing to continue seeing how deeply buried in the book Anthony already was. She turned to smile serenely at Edith, by whom Anthony had walked without so much as a glance.

Feeling her resolve waver, Edith spoke quietly, addressing Anthony, "I was very taken by what you were saying over dinner about—"

"You're right, Lady Mary," Anthony said, not realizing what he'd stepped in the middle of. "How clever you are. This is exactly what we have to be aware of."

Given the disinterest Mary had made apparent at dinner, Anthony was shocked that she'd handed him a book so specifically addressing his interests, and he wondered whether her aloofness was merely a way of being coy with him that he misunderstood. That it was Edith who had sought the book out for him was not something Anthony could have known. And not hearing Edith when she'd spoken was a testament to his interest in the very subject she was most interested in talking to him about.

Anthony was not a malicious man, and did not willfully ignore Edith the way many men had before. But all Edith could see was another man looking to the brightest rose in the room, walking past the less obviously beautiful lily.

"There's a section just here that I was rather unsure about," Mary continued. "I wonder if you could tell me . . ."

Matthew saw it all, and it sickened him.

He excused himself to Robert and, as conspicuously as he could, walked past Anthony and Mary to Edith.

Assuming Matthew saw her rebuffed and was trying to make her feel better, Edith said more quietly, "It seems we've both been thrown over for a bigger prize."

But Matthew ignored what she'd said and instead declared, rather loudly, a desire to walk with her to the library so they could speak alone.

Edith looked at him a bit puzzled.

"Do you remember what I told you once about men and competition?" He asked in a whisper.

"Ye-es."

"Then play along."

Edith moved slightly to look over Matthew's shoulder to Anthony and Mary, both of whom had turned to watch herself and Matthew. She gave Matthew a small smile and took his arm. All eyes were on them as they left the room.

They didn't speak until they were in the entrance hall, where Matthew stopped them.

"So what do we do now?" Edith asked with a giggle.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps you should proceed to the library and find a book. Go back to the parlor and sit in a corner as if to read alone. My guess is that he'll come to you."

Edith dropped his arm and started fidgeting with her fingers nervously. "How can you be sure?"

"Well, we can't ever be sure of anything when it comes to the pursuit of love."

"Those aren't very encouraging words."

"Yes, they are," Matthew said kindly. "Love is what you're after, isn't it? It'll never be yours if you don't fight."

Edith smiled and turned to go, but stopped for a moment. "What about you?"

"I'm going home."

"You need not be jealous, you know," Edith said quietly. "She was just trying to prove a point."

"I'm not jealous, Edith. I'm disappointed."

"Well, then give her time. It takes her longer than anyone else."

"What does?"

"Admitting she's been wrong."

Matthew smiled sadly but with a slight bow turned and left.

* * *

 

In the parlor, Tom and Sybil had not been standing next to one another in the moment when Matthew and Edith left the room and had not seen what transpired between Edith, Mary and Anthony. So they were both puzzled by Matthew's behavior—and Edith's, considering how convinced Tom had been of her interest in Anthony and how sure Sybil was that Edith no longer saw Matthew in a romantic way.

Tom and Sybil looked at one another for explanation, but both shrugged, at a loss to what was going on. They'd have been amused to know that their exchange of glances was much the same as the one that happened between Robert and Cora.

After a minute or so, everyone went back to their conversations.

Everyone except Anthony and Mary.

Edith's departure made Anthony suddenly and painfully aware of the fact that he'd ignored Edith's presence just moments ago. He felt a deep pang of regret, realizing that his enjoyment of the evening up until that point had been a result of her attentions and no one else's. He turned to Mary to excuse himself. Continuing to talk with her no longer felt right or appropriate. But she was still staring at the door through which Matthew and Edith had exited.

"My apologies, Lady Mary—"

But Mary was not listening. So she cut in, "Excuse me, Sir Anthony," and quickly walked out of the room.

This did not escape Robert's notice. He took a long drink of his scotch and said quietly to Cora, "Mary can be such a child."

"What do you mean, darling?"

"She thinks, if you put a toy down, it will still be sitting there when you want to play with it again."

"What are you talking about?"

He looked at Cora and smiled. "Never mind."

Cora sighed, not sure what was in Robert's mind. But though she missed Mary's dramatic exit, she didn't miss Edith's return shortly after, nor did she miss the way Anthony followed Edith to the corner of the room where she'd sat down.

They didn't speak long. Edith accepted Anthony's apology, though she insisted she'd not felt slighted by him. He thanked her for the stimulating conversation at dinner. She smiled and looked back down to her book, which he took as a sign that she didn't want to be disturbed further. The truth was though that she'd been so surprised that he sought her out—as Matthew had predicted—that she was afraid of saying more and upsetting the balance again. Anthony missed Edith looking back at him with a happy hopeful smile as he walked to join Robert at the hearth, but even so Anthony knew that this wasn't the end of things with her and he was grateful for that.

Meanwhile, after she'd left the room, Mary had walked right past Edith in the hall but barely noticed. When she got to the entrance hall, Alfred had just come back in.

"Has Mr. Crawley left?" She asked anxiously.

"Yes, milady."

"But what about the car? Pratt can't have brought it 'round so quickly."

"Well, he said he'd rather walk, milady."

"Thank you."

Alfred pointed to a window and Mary watched for a moment as Matthew walked across the front drive toward the gate and the village. Then, suddenly and impulsively, she ran to the door, opened it herself and ran after him, determined to know his mind once and for all.

"Matthew!"

He kept walking.

"MATTHEW!"

He turned abruptly, which startled Mary. "What was that back there?" he asked angrily.

"What?"

"You and Anthony Strallan."

Mary smiled a bit relieved. "That?! Matthew that was nothing. That was—"

"That was you trying to prove yourself capable of attracting a man you don't want."

Mary stopped short at the severity of his tone.

Matthew continued. "Trying to prove that you are more beautiful than Edith, a fact of which I can assure you she is entirely aware because it's been thrown in her face her entire life."

Mary was taken aback. This was not what she'd expected to hear.

Matthew sighed, his shoulders drooping. "You have no interest in Sir Anthony, but you have to know Edith does. You took his attention away for no reason but to spite her. And I'm forced to wonder why you would choose to make an enemy out of someone in a world in which women like you already have so much with which to contend."

Mary tried in vain to keep her tears in check, but she could feel them spill over onto her cheeks as she spoke. "And you think she's innocent in all this, do you?"

"I assume she's not, but I know a kind word from you would end the enmity between you. I think you know that too, and yet you refuse to give it. Why?"

Mary turned away and quickly wiped her cheeks. "Why should I tell you anything? What could you possibly understand about what it's like to stand in those rooms year after year, be told over and over that the world is at your feet, that everything begins and ends with you when the fact is you're just like all the others."

She turned to face him again. "There's no difference between her and me, not really, except that I was taught high regard and high expectation. So much greater is my disappointment. And now I've wrecked it all over again and you have seen me as I am, an embittered and jealous woman doomed to spinsterhood by her own vanity."

Matthew stepped closer to Mary, who was taken aback once again but even so didn't move from her spot.

He spoke quietly, looking at his feet. "I don't think you embittered Mary, only misguided. You certainly have no reason for jealousy, at least as far as I am concerned. And well . . . perhaps it is foolishness, but I've not given up the idea that we may yet give your father the marriage that he wants between us. Only for that to come to pass I must know the real you, and I know you at least well enough to understand that you've not let her out yet, not in my presence. Certainly, that was not the real you tonight."

Matthew looked up into her liquid eyes and unable to stop himself leaned over and placed a soft peck on her cheek.

"Good night " he said quietly, then turned and left.

Mary watched him until he was out of sight, and eventually, Alfred came outside and asked her if she needed anything. She shook her head and proceeded upstairs to her room.

It wasn't too long after that the party broke up.

Outside, waiting for Pratt, Isobel and Tom were surprised to learn from Alfred that Matthew had opted to walk home, which again prompted Tom and Sybil to exchange glances, given that Mary also seemed to have retired early.

Anthony said his goodbyes to everyone in the family and thanked Robert for the invigorating conversation. "You and the young men gave me a lot to think about as we move our estate forward."

"Feel free to ignore the more radical notions," Robert said. "We're still waiting to see whether they work here."

"They are working, Sir Anthony," Tom piped in, standing behind Robert. "Robert's skepticism regarding the benefits of allowing those who work the land a larger share of the bounty we reap from it does not affect that fact, only his willingness to accept it."

"Nevermind Tom," Robert said with a roll of his eyes. "He's our tame revolutionary."

Anthony sensed a tension between the two and didn't want to say something out of turn, so he offered, as playfully as he could, "Every family must have one."

"What Robert mistakes for tameness is merely a willingness to pick my fights wisely."

Tom stepped forward to shake the hand of Anthony, who was a bit surprised at seeing a young man address Robert so familiarly and challenge him so directly. "It was nice talking with you, Sir Anthony. I hope we see more of you."

Anthony nodded and moved to shake Robert's hand. "It was a marvelous dinner. Thank you, Lord Grantham."

Robert smiled. After Anthony boarded his car, Robert looked to Tom. "So that's how it's going to be then, you insulting me in front of my guests."

Tom laughed, infuriating Robert all the more. "I did no such thing. I merely spoke up in contradiction of what you said, which I happen to know to be false. I've been quiet this month in deference to our . . . disagreement regarding what I revealed—"

" _How_ you revealed it," Robert cut in.

"Fine. But anyway, I'm done with that. I'm afraid I can't turn into somebody else just to please you, and I'm not sorry for that. You are either willing to accept me and welcome me into your house as I am or not at all. If the later, say the word now, and this will be the last time I'll be here before Matthew's in your place. No harm done. It is your home, after all."

Tom waited for Robert to say something, but was met with only silence.

"All right, then," Tom said, more quietly. He took a deep breath, then said, "We're going to be in each other's lives for some time. So long as Matthew is your heir, I'll be here to help him and I'll do so according to what I think is right."

"Even if it means burning the place down?"

Tom laughed. "Don't you think if that were my end, I'd have already done it?"

"What is your end, Tom?" Robert asked, genuine curiosity in his face.

Tom thought for a moment.

_I want to marry your daughter. And I don't want you to hate her for it._

"I'd like for you to trust me."

"Is that all?"

"It's plenty. Does it surprise you?"

Robert was no longer angry, but still a bit closed off from what Tom could tell. "Life is full of surprises," Robert said.

Pratt came around then, and Tom and Isobel boarded the motor for home.

"Are things on the mend with you and Robert?" Isobel asked once they were on their way.

"I don't know," Tom answered. "I feel better about where they are in any case."

* * *

 

After she went to bed, Mary rang for Anna, who could see that her charge had been shaken up by something, but helped her out of her dress and into her night clothes without comment, which Mary appreciated.

Later, as she was getting into bed, Mary noticed the copy of Emma that Sybil had left on her night table and, wanting to get out of her head before she tried to sleep, walked over to her youngest sister's room to return it to her.

Sybil was at her desk writing in her journal when she heard Mary's knock.

"Come in," she called out.

Mary entered. "You left this in my room," she said, walking over to the bed and sitting down, setting the book down next to her.

Sybil smiled and came over to sit next to Mary, picking up the book and leafing through it absentmindedly. "I've read it so many times, I don't even need the book anymore, really. I can recite the whole thing in my head."

Mary smiled. "I must admit, that one was never my favorite of Austen's work."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Knightley is rather insufferable, I think, scolding Emma as he does when all she's trying to do is help the people around her find love and enjoy herself. She's misguided about love, sure, but everyone likes her. There's no real harm in anything she does, and all he can do is find fault in it."

Sybil smiled. "Everyone likes Emma because nobody really knows her, _except_ Mr. Knightley, and given _that,_ he is honest with her in a way that no one else can be. He doesn't find fault in her exactly, but in the manner in which her vanity—puffed up by Frank Churchill—suppresses her true, kinder instincts. He might have told her in a gentler way, but he was also acting out of jealousy."

"Except Emma was never in love with Frank Churchill."

"No, but he was invited to Highbury for the purpose of courting her—at least, that was true as far as Mr. Knightley knew. He can hardly be blamed for speaking forcefully in the hope his message and plea got through past Frank's false flattery."

Mary smiled. "Who knew Mr. Knightley had such a champion as you."

Sybil shrugged slightly. "I've always liked the fact that he wasn't so snobbish as your precious Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Darcy was honest with Elizabeth about what was expected of him and about what she herself knew to be true: His position was much higher than hers. The fact that his love doesn't waver in spite of all of that and in spite of his own efforts to convince himself not to love her is the mark of true romance, if you ask me."

"So you aren't entirely opposed to a cross-class marriage," Sybil said quietly.

Mary looked to the window but did not respond.

Sybil smiled watching her sister and added more teasingly, "I think you love Mr. Darcy only because you wish you could be mistress of Pemberly."

Mary looked back at Sybil. "There's that too."

Both of them giggled.

"What about you?" Mary asked.

"Me?"

"Is Wentworth still your absolute favorite?" Mary asked with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile.

"He is. Though, unlike Anne Elliot, I will not be talked out of my feelings."

"I pity the fool who tries it."

Sybil laughed.

"Well, I'll leave you alone," Mary said, standing.

"Mary, why did you come up so early?" Sybil asked, also standing. "Mama thought perhaps you weren't feeling well."

A rueful smile came across Mary's face. "As it happened to our dear Miss Woodhouse, my vanity took a blow tonight, but after some thought, I think I am better for it."

"Was it because of Sir Anthony? His preferring Edith?"

"Goodness, no! Just a series of unfortunate events, most of them made so by me."

"And you're all right?"

Mary sighed. "I will be." She paused, then sitting back down on the bed asked, "Do you think Edith could be happy with someone so . . ."

"Old?"

Mary smiled. "Mature."

Sybil giggled, sitting down next to her sister again. "I shouldn't laugh. He's wonderfully kind."

"And I suppose the handsomeness of his youth hasn't left him entirely. His sister, I'm sure would prove a meddlesome nightmare, but he'd likely make a good husband."

"Just not for you."

"Not for me," Mary said with a sigh. "But would Edith really take him?"

Sybil thought for a long moment. "Edith deserves to be happy as much as anyone. I think he'd make a conscientious effort to make her so. All she wishes for is someone who will listen and try to understand who she is and delight in it."

"Isn't that what we all want?"

"I suppose so."

Mary looked down for a moment. "Have I ruined her life?"

Sybil smiled momentarily, but her expression changed as she saw in her sister's eyes that she was not making a joke, but rather asking a sincere question.

"You've taught her to be strong and to have thick skin, even if the lesson was sometimes a bit too harshly applied."

"You're sweet, but far too forgiving."

"I have a soft spot for my _both_ of my sisters. . . . But I do believe you've done no wrong that can't be mended. She's forgiving too you know."

"It's just me who carries grudges, then?"

"Including against yourself."

Mary looked at Sybil and smiled, then stood to leave again. "I wasn't thrilled when you were born, you know? But I am happy to say that I was wrong on that score."

"The more you admit you don't know everything, the more quickly you'll realize how freeing it is to do so."

Mary narrowed her eyes playfully at Sybil. "How did you get to be so wise?"

"I was blessed with good sisters."

* * *

The following afternoon, the entire village was gathered for the flower show, and just about everyone cheered when Violet called out Mr. William Moseley's Comtesse Cabarrus rose as the 1913 winner of the Grantham Cup, instead of her own entry.

The family all smiled knowingly, understanding what it took to for Violet to concede such a prize.

The Crawley sisters stood together, Sybil in the middle, arms linked. They'd chosen to walk to the village together, instead of taking a ride with Pratt. Nothing had been said between Edith and Mary of the events the night before, but that was just as well. This was a new day, as exemplified by Violet's changing attitude regarding what was given to her and what she had earned.

"Now, see," Sybil said as all three watched Tom, Matthew and Isobel eagerly congratulate their butler and his father. "If granny can learn a lesson at her age, anything is possible."

"I'll admit I never thought I'd see the day," Mary said. "Though you'll never hear granny admit it."

"What need is there of an admission?" Edith asked. "Mr. Moseley is happy either way, having won what he wanted."

Sybil laughed softly. "Would that achieving happiness were really so simple as a garden rose."


	35. The Case of Farmer Drake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps ahead about a month and brings us to September and the re-launch of the cricket match in the village. The match itself is still to come. Along with the set up for that, we peek in on Sybil volunteering with Isobel at the hospital. Those wondering about the fallout of Edith/Anthony and Mary/Matthew, that will come in the next few chapters. This one is more focused on Sybil and her growing ambitions. Lastly, the Drake storyline from the second episode of series one pops up here with some of the show's dialogue incorporated and adjusted for the change in timeline. You'll perhaps understand why I decided to put it here, when you get to the end of the chapter.

  **September 1913**

The warmth and brightness of summer began to give way to autumn just weeks after the village flower show. The early morning chill took longer to dissipate, and as the peak of harvesting season neared, the estate's farms were working at full tilt. The productivity was helped along by the festive atmosphere that the flower show had sparked and that lingered in the air long after. The hopeful air around town reminded Robert of the days of his youth, when he believed the strength of his father's character alone was what held his domain aloft. He knew better now. At least, he knew that it took more than just the will of Lord Alistair Crawley—and more than just his money. What it was exactly that was happening now, Robert wasn't so sure, but the question was no longer his to answer. All that was left for him to do was to acknowledge the wisdom of God for bringing Matthew home to Downton.

That and assemble his cricket team.

Other than the visits to Scotland that he'd chosen to give up, the annual fall match that pitted the family versus residents of the village was the event that Robert had most looked forward to before their lives had changed so drastically and the one he'd most missed in the time the family had been away. When the calendar had turned to September, Dr. Richard Clarkson, the doctor who ran the hospital and one of the past organizers of the village team, had approached Robert to ask if the family would be taking up the tradition again after the two year hiatus. Robert was pleased to know that the village players were as eager as he to step onto the pitch once again, and so it was that the date was set.

A week before the match, Robert on a whim took a turn around the village shortly after breakfast to see the pitch himself and ensure that it was in a playable state. When he made it back home, he found all three of his daughters and his wife in the library. Mary was sitting in an armchair near the window reading, Cora and Sybil in the sitting area by the hearth, and Edith at the desk.

"I thought you'd be gone longer," Cora said as he came in.

"No, just getting a bit of air," he said, walking over to the sofa facing Cora and Sybil.

"Is the green ready for the cricket match?" Cora asked. "I spoke to the gardeners about the tents for us this morning."

"Yes, it all looks very good."

"And how are you getting on with the team?"

"I'm a bit worried about our numbers to be honest. When James and Patrick played, so did each of their valets and their butler. Matthew and Tom only bring Moseley with them."

"Won't Moseley be on the side of the village?" Mary asked, looking up from her book.

"Not if I've got anything to do with it," Robert responded quickly.

Sybil looked up from her embroidery and exchanged glances with Mary, both amused to see that time had not dulled their father's competitive spirit.

"Isn't Moseley's father captain of the village team?" Mary continued.

"The son works for the family now, so he'll be on our side," Robert replied. "We need him more than they do."

Sybil smiled at Robert. "Are you so sure of Moseley skill?"

"I'm only sure that if we can't field a proper team, we would have to forfeit the match. And I'm not prepared to concede victory to William Moseley so easily as mama."

The girls looked at one another and laughed.

"Well, the gardeners did say their team is in terrific shape," Cora put in.

Robert sighed. "It's so unfair the outside staff play for the village."

"Why don't you support the house and the village?" Edith asked. "You own both."

"I'm captain of the _house_ team," Robert said. "And anyway, the village merchants will all be their own landlords eventually, according to Matthew and Tom's plans. Half of them already are."

"If I were you, I'd be captain of the village," Cora said. "They always win."

"Not always," Robert said, with a face that told Cora he did not find her suggestion helpful. "Usually, but not always."

"Excuse me, your lordship."

The family all turned to see Carson coming into the room.

"Mr. Pratt is ready to take Lady Sybil to the hospital."

Sybil stood eagerly. "Thank you, Carson."

"What could you want to do at the hospital on a Saturday?" Robert asked.

"You know I've been going with Cousin Isobel. She volunteers on weekends, when there are fewer nurses on duty."

"But I thought we were driving into Ripon," Mary said, looking at her mother.

"We are," Cora replied. "Aren't you coming with us?" She asked Sybil.

"I've promised Isobel, and I am so looking forward to it."

"Are you sure you're not just getting in the way?" Robert asked sternly.

Annoyance began to bubble in Sybil's stomach. "Of course, I'm sure! I wouldn't go if I knew I was a nuisance. I genuinely want to help with whatever needs doing."

"But darling, won't you want something new to wear for the match?" Cora asked.

"Mama, I've plenty of white dresses, now please, I don't want to keep Pratt waiting and I still have to get my coat," she said, moving to leave the library with a determined stride.

"Then who's taking us to Ripon?" Mary asked.

"Edith can drive you," Sybil called out from the door. Mary did not miss the impish grin on Sybil's face as she left.

"We can't hold off anymore, Robert, we need another driver," Cora said. Quickly turning to Edith, she added, "No offense, darling."

Edith rolled her eyes with a laugh. "None taken."

"I suppose, you're right," Robert said scratching his head.

Cora gave Robert a knowing look. "Tom has been saying as much since before we went to London. Matthew has already said we have the wherewithal to do it. I know you don't like the bother of hiring, so swallow your pride, give Tom the task and be done with it."

Robert sighed.

"Think of your concession as an exercise in team unity," Mary said with a teasing smile.

"No need to make fun," Robert said sternly.

Cora and Edith couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

 

"Aren't you going to the hospital today, mother?" Matthew asked from behind the newspaper he was reading in the Crawley House parlor.

"I am," Isobel said from her spot on the sofa. "Sybil was kind enough to offer to have Pratt pick me up. Since it rained yesterday, she thought the lane might be a bit too muddy for me to walk."

"That was kind of her," Matthew answered.

"How is she taking to it?" Tom asked from where he sat writing on the desk.

Isobel thought for a moment. "She mostly just observes. I believe she's a bit apprehensive about how and when to help, given her lack of experience. When we did an inventory of Dr. Clarkson's patient files last week, she alphabetized the new ones from this past year and was happy to have done at least that much. It's so funny to think of Mary, Edith and Sybil as having so many advantages, but put them in a room full of unmade beds, and they'd get lost."

"That's rather unfair, mother," Matthew said.

"I don't blame _them_ , certainly," Isobel said. "We all educate our children according to the life we expect them to lead, but what happens when life confounds those expectations?"

"Or when your children grow up to have expectations that are different from your own?" Tom said.

"What do you know of parenting?" Matthew asked teasingly.

"I know how to make my bed," Tom said with a laugh. "You could help her, Aunt Isobel. I've told you she has interest in medicine. You could show her where to start."

"She needs to find her own entry point," Isobel said kindly. "If she's going to stick with it, the journey has to be her own from the start."

"Well, you would know better than me," Tom said. "I'm glad she can count on you, either way."

"Excuse me, mum," Moseley said coming in with a tea tray.

"Oh, thank you, Moseley," Matthew said putting the paper away to take his cup. Tom walked over to the sofa next to Isobel for a cup as well.

"None for me, thank you, Moseley," Isobel said. "I expect Pratt will be here shortly."

"Very good, mum," the butler said, serving Matthew and Tom.

"Did you have a nice walk with your father this morning?" Isobel asked Moseley. "Mrs. Branson said you were out early."

"Indeed. Father wanted to ensure the green was ready for next week's match."

"What match?" Tom asked.

"Cricket, or didn't you hear Robert talking about it yesterday in the drawing room before dinner?" Matthew said with a laugh.

"I must have missed that," Tom said, stirring the sugar into his tea.

"It was an annual event in town before the family's departure," Moseley said. " I know the village players are keen to start it up again. His lordship as well."

"I hope he doesn't think I'll play," Tom said.

"I daresay you both might be needed, given the few number of men in the house," Moseley said, moving to stand by the entryway once he was done serving. "Frankly, I'm rather surprised he has not confirmed it with you already. As I remember, nobody takes it more seriously than his lordship. Whatever he likes to pretend."

"I don't doubt that," Matthew said. "I'll venture to guess he _assumes_ we'll play, Tom."

"Well, he _assumes_ wrong."

"Do you not like cricket, Mr. Branson?" Moseley asked in a surprised tone.

"Not particularly," Tom said, picking up the newspaper Matthew had discarded.

"Father tried teaching him once," Matthew told Moseley. "It didn't take."

"It's an Englishman's game," Tom said, rather humorlessly, without looking up from the paper.

"And English, you most certainly are not," Matthew said, looking over his teacup.

"I am, indeed, Irish by the grace of God," Tom replied. "What's more, any man not born in this country who plays that game has been coerced to do so by the forces of English paternalism—it's a mark of empire, plain and simple. I'd just as soon not be a party to it."

"You certainly don't have to, if you don't want to," Isobel said, patting him on the shoulder as she stood. "Though I don't think the fate of the revolution hangs on whether or not you are willing to don the whites for a village match."

Matthew laughed, and Tom cracked a smile in spite of himself.

"More to the point," Tom said. "I don't know how to play."

"I could show you, sir," Moseley said, encouragingly. "There's not much I don't know about cricket."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Moseley," Tom said, kindly. "But I assure you the game is not for me."

"Very well, sir," Moseley said, smiling. Hearing a knock on the door, he turned toward the hall.

"That must be Sybil," Isobel said. "Let her in, will you, Moseley, while I get my hat upstairs."

"Yes, mum," he said, leaving the parlor, Isobel behind him, heading to the stairs.

"I wonder what Cousin Sybil's position is on the politics of cricket," Matthew said playfully.

Tom furrowed his brow. "Closer to mine than yours, I'd wager."

"I've a feeling that a word from her and your resolve not to play will crumble."

Before Tom had a chance to respond, Moseley stepped in to announce Sybil. Tom and Matthew stood as she came in.

"Good morning," Sybil said brightly.

Matthew smiled, watching how completely Tom's demeanor changed.

"Good morning," Tom said, with a smile. "Off to the hospital?"

Sybil nodded. "And you?"

"I'll do a bit of work that I brought home later," he replied. "We might take a turn about the farms," he added looking to Matthew.

"And what are Mary and Edith up to?" Matthew asked.

"Off to the dressmaker's in Ripon," Sybil said. "Apparently, the cricket match is occasion enough for a new frock."

"And are _you_ looking forward to it?" Matthew asked, looking at Tom from the side of his eyes.

"I'd forgotten all about it, to be honest," Sybil said.

Tom looked at Matthew with a triumphant smile.

"Has Robert put together his team?" Matthew asked.

Sybil looked at Matthew curiously. "A strange question from someone papa expects to be on the team."

"I look forward to playing, though the same can't be said for Tom," Matthew said.

Sybil turned to him. "You aren't going to play? Because papa is counting on you as well."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I don't know or like the game. You'd think if I were needed on the team, I'd have been alerted to this fact already."

Sybil laughed. "It's papa. Does it really surprise you that he'd take such a thing as a given?"

Tom laughed. "I suppose not."

Isobel stepped back into the parlor, now with hat and coat on. "Thank you for waiting, my dear. Shall we be off?"

"Yes," Sybil said. Turning back to Tom, she added, "Please say hello to Mrs. Branson. It's been too long since I've had a visit with her."

"I will," Tom said, touched that Sybil always remembered his mother.

Matthew and Tom both gave a slight bow as Sybil and Isobel left.

"So what will you tell Robert?" Matthew asked Tom once they'd sat back down.

"He has to ask a question before he gets an answer," Tom said.

Matthew smiled. "I'm suddenly rather looking forward to dinner this evening."

Tom laughed as he picked up the newspaper again. "I'm glad I can amuse you."

* * *

 

After Pratt pulled up into the alley next to the hospital, Isobel and Sybil hopped out and walked in, leaving their hats and coats in the head nurse's small office, just inside the entrance. As they came back out, they saw Dr. Clarkson approaching.

Isobel turned to Sybil. "Would you like to join us on Dr. Clarkson's rounds?"

Sybil's eyes widened with delight. "May I?"

"I know you've been helping in the stock room," Isobel said, "but if you're interested in expanding your horizons. . . "

"Oh, please?" Sybil said, looking at Dr. Clarkson, trying but mostly failing to contain herself.

Dr. Clarkson smiled kindly. "It's kind of you to take an interest."

Isobel smiled and said, "Lead the way, Dr. Clarkson."

The doctor smiled and stepped forward toward the main wing.

As they walked, Isobel bent down to whisper to Sybil, "There's not much in the way of gruesome disease here, but if there's anything that troubles you, don't be embarrassed. Just step away."

Sybil nodded. "Did you see terrible sights in your time as a nurse?"

"I was a volunteer during South African War. There's nothing you don't see in war time."

Dr. Clarkson turned around smiling. "When Mrs. Crawley first moved to the village and expressed an interest in helping here at the hospital, I rather assumed she'd do so from afar, so to speak."

Sybil smiled. "Like my grandmother, you mean."

"Her ladyship's patronage has meant a lot to us over the years," Dr. Clarkson said. "She plays her part as well."

After a moment, Dr. Clarkson continued, "Given Mrs. Crawley's war time experience and Dr. Crawley's well-known work on the symptoms of infection in children, it remains something of a surprise to me that neither of the young gentlemen followed them into the profession."

"They wanted to forge their own paths, I think," Isobel said. "Both were of very much their own minds in that regard."

"Did it surprise you that they chose the same profession?" Sybil asked.

"Not entirely," Isobel answered. "They are in so many ways different, but in so many other ways very similar and complementary. They came at it by different interests—Tom an interest in politics and Matthew in history—but I think more than anything they wanted to work together."

Sybil smiled. "Do you think they'll ever have their own practice again?"

"Time will tell," Isobel said.

As the three made their way across the mostly empty ward, one of the few nurses working escorted a weeping woman out from the back.

Seeing Sybil's look of concern, Dr. Clarkson spoke, "Very distressing. A young tenant farmer, John Drake, came in today. It's dropsy, I'm afraid."

"May we see him?" Isobel asked.

"By all means," Dr. Clarkson said.

He led the two women around a small screen. Isobel, familiar with the disorder, was prepared for the sight, but Sybil was not. She brought her hand to her face to hold in her gasp as she saw the sweaty, jaundiced man, whose legs were swollen to a ghastly degree and covered with red puss-filled sores.

"Is the dropsy of the liver or the heart?" Isobel asked.

"Everything points to the heart," Dr. Clarkson said gravely.

Mr. Drake wheezed uncomfortably and coughed into a handkerchief in his hand. When he took it away, Sybil could see that there was blood on it. Dr. Clarkson approached the man and put his hands on his torso as if to check his swelling.

"All right, Mr. Drake," he said. "You're in safe hands now."

Isobel looked at Sybil, as if to see if she needed to step away, but Sybil shook off her discomfort. She took her own handkerchief out of her pocket and, sitting on the other side of Mr. Drake's bed, used it to wipe the sweat collecting on his forehead.

"We'll take good care of you," she said determinedly.

Dr. Clarkson looked over his shoulder to Isobel who was regarding Sybil with something akin to a mother's admiration. He stood and walked back over to Isobel, at the foot of the bed, and they both watched as Sybil comforted the man.

Isobel turned to Dr. Clarkson after a few moments and gestured for his stethoscope, which he handed over with a smile, already quite used to Isobel's hands-on approach. Other doctors might not take kindly to a woman's "meddling" in their profession, but for the most part Dr. Clarkson found Isobel to have good instincts and a kind professional manner. He had meant it when he told Sybil that Isobel's fortitude in the face of disease and injury constantly surprised him. Isobel liked to push the boundaries of common medical practices much more than Dr. Clarkson was comfortable, so it was only rarely that he took her advice, but he knew she meant well. Her presence at the hospital was never unwelcome.

Isobel stepped forward toward Mr. Drake, and Sybil stood to give Isobel room.

"May I?" Isobel asked the man.

Though barely able to move by his discomfort, Mr. Drake nodded. Isobel put the stethoscope to his chest moving it around from one side to the other, then lower to his abdomen. She stood again and said to Sybil, "Go ask Nurse Roberts to give you a basin of cold water and a towel, then bring it back and pat his head and neck with the dampened towel. It will offer a bit of relief."

Sybil nodded and turned quickly to go.

"Is it wise to involve her so?" Dr. Clarkson asked as he and Isobel came back into the ward from around the curtain that shielded Mr. Drake from the rest of the patients. "I can't imagine that his lordship would like this, a daughter of his caring for a tenant farmer."

"She wants to help," Isobel said. "And Lord Grantham is proud, certainly, but not uncharitable."

"If you say so," Dr. Clarkson said.

Isobel sighed. "What will happen to his wife?" She asked.

"She may try to keep the farm on. Grantham is not a harsh landlord, as you know, but her children are young."

"I'll mention it to my sons. They've said the farms are quite busy right now, but surely the agent is aware if the Drakes are falling behind. I'm sure Mr. Mason will see to the family so they won't be put out."

"That'll be one less worry, then," Dr. Clarkson responded.

Sybil came back with the basin and towel. Isobel smiled when she saw that Sybil had put on a nurse's apron. She and Dr. Clarkson watched wordlessly as Sybil walked back to care for Mr. Drake.

"It's definitely the heart," Isobel said after Sybil had disappeared behind the curtain. "It's almost too quiet to hear at all."

"I'm afraid so," he said.

"There are treatments that are available," Isobel said. "I know considerable success has been achieved over the last few years by draining the pericardial sac of the excess fluid and administering adrenaline."

Dr. Clarkson sighed. He might have anticipated this. It was always with the most complicated cases that Isobel sought to intervene. "Mrs. Crawley, I appreciate your thoroughness—"

"Are you unwilling to try it?" She asked, cutting in.

"Injection of adrenaline is a comparatively new procedure."

"It's a while ago now, but I saw my husband do it. I know how."

He took a deep breath. "Please, Mrs. Crawley, don't—don't force me to be uncivil. I appreciate that you have some knowledge of medicine, and your helping hand has been a welcome one, but the patients here are my responsibility."

"Dr. Clarkson, your judgment has always ruled when I have made suggestions in the past, and I don't seek to usurp your authority, but surely this time—"

"We would be setting an impossible precedent when every villager could demand the latest fad in treatment for each new cut and graze."

"I would remind you that we're not talking of a cut or a graze, but the loss of a man's life and the ruin of his family."

"You just said yourself that Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson would see that Mrs. Drake and her children would be looked after!"

"If it comes to the worst, yes, but it doesn't have to!" Isobel insisted.

"I understand what's at stake for him, but I beg you to see that it is . . . not reasonable," Dr. Clarkson said. He looked over Isobel's shoulder to see Sybil coming out from behind the curtain again and hoped that this would be the end of the discussion.

"He fell asleep," Sybil said quietly, not having heard all of their argument but enough to know the substance of their quarrel.

"Thank you, Lady Sybil," Dr. Clarkson said with a tense smile. "I have some matters to attend to in my office, but feel free to help the nurses as you can."

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," Sybil said.

After he'd walked away, Sybil approached Isobel. "Is there really something that may be done to save Mr. Drake?"

Isobel nodded. "It's not a common procedure, which is why Dr. Clarkson is skeptical as to its effectiveness."

"If it goes wrong, Mr. Drake could die?"

Isobel nodded.

"And if nothing is done, what will happen?"

Isobel sighed. "He'll die."

"So what's the harm in trying?" Sybil asked, a bit incredulous that a doctor would hesitate when a life was in the balance.

"When we consider the marvel that is the function of the human body, and the vast collection of information and knowledge contained within it, we must acknowledge that doctors truly know very little about how it all works. But so much can be done to prolong and improve life with that tiny bit of knowledge we _do_ have, that we cling to it—sometimes to a fault—because we don't know what will happen if we push into the unknown. When we ask the question, 'What can be done to help Mr. Drake?' Dr. Clarkson chooses the answer that is known to him."

"Even if it means Mr. Drake won't get well?"

Isobel nodded again.

"Couldn't you do it without him?" Sybil asked. "I don't mean you should flout his authority, but what harm can there be if the worst result may come to pass anyway?"

"Alas, I am not Mr. Drake's doctor. Only a concerned helper."

Sybil frowned.

Isobel put her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Come, dear, let's see where else we may be useful."

"There's not much usefulness in offering a valuable opinion and being ignored," Sybil said, quietly, almost as if she were talking to herself.

* * *

 

Several hours later, in the late afternoon, Sybil and Tom found themselves once again lying on the grass on the bank of the creek near the Downton Abbey gates.

Tom had arrived first. After taking his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie, he rolled up the jacked and, using it as a pillow, laid back on the grass to read Walter Bagehot's Physics and Politics while he waited for Sybil. After returning to the big house from the hospital, she had a late luncheon, then excused herself to go walking and doing so directly toward where she knew her beloved would be waiting. She arrived still exhilarated from her work at the hospital and told Tom stories of all the patients she was allowed to visit with in between kisses.

Eventually, they settled back down on the grass to read quietly side by side. He was in the position he'd been in when he arrived, occasionally looking over to her from his book. She lay on her stomach, resting on her elbows, her own book—a collection of the writings of Florence Nightingale, a birthday gift from Tom—spread open in front of her. But her mind was too full to focus on something she'd already read twice over anyway.

"I was surprised that Cousin Isobel acquiesced so easily," Sybil said with a sigh, referring back to the quarrel she'd overheard about Mr. Drake's treatment, which she'd related to Tom.

Tom looked over at her and said with a grin. "If I know her, this is hardly the last of it."

"So you think she'll insist?"

"I do. She's mentioned disagreements with Dr. Clarkson before, but nothing so serious as this."

"I just don't understand why he would resist something new if it could be lifesaving."

"It's in your nature to see hope and possibility in change and in the unknown. I'm afraid most of the world isn't like that."

Sybil sighed. "I'm starting to see that."

Tom laughed.

"What?"

"Dr. Clarkson can handle Aunt Isobel, but I have a feeling he'll rue the day you stepped into his hospital."

Sybil lifted her nose in the air. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Tom sat up and leaned over to kiss her. "That's precisely how I meant it."

Sybil smiled and kissed him back. After a moment, she narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you choose to become a doctor?"

"It was never an interest of mine. I know Uncle Reg did wonderful work, but I always felt a bit queasy when he spoke of it. In school, biology was my worst subject."

Sybil looked down at her book again. "You know, Tom . . ."

"Yes?"

"I am not so different from her, Florence Nightingale," she said gesturing to her book. "She was already twenty-four when she entered her profession, and she was largely self-educated and quite political."

Tom nodded.

"And here I am reading _her_ work and not that of the very many doctors who likely told her time and again that they knew better."

Tom nodded again.

"It's just . . ."

"What?" He asked quietly.

"Something Gwen said once—that it's easier to think you can do it, once you know someone else has done it before you."

Tom smiled, and Sybil leaned into him again for another kiss, after which she turned her attention back to her book. He laid back down on the grass with the intention of getting back to his own reading, but for most of the rest of the afternoon, he was content just to watch her.


	36. The Effect of Cricket Whites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a flashback, then picks up where the last left off. In case the flashback throws off your sense of the timeline, this chapter and the last one comprise one single day.
> 
> There's lots of Mary in this chapter. Tom and Sybil don't interact a lot, but both are very outspoken in this chapter in ways that I hope you find interesting and amusing. One thing I should point out about Sybil is that because interest in medicine in coming on as a natural interest for Sybil, rather than as a result of the toll of the war, her family will be a bit more resistant to it. They accepted the nursing on the show as part of the war effort. Here, in their minds, there is no reason for Sybil to have such an interest so she is going to have to fight for it a bit more than she had to on the show.

 

 

**_September 1902_ **

_"Must we really go to the cricket match, mama? It always such a terrible bore," Mary said as she, her mother and her sisters—along with nanny and O'Brien—made the walk to the village green for the annual event._

_Robert had left the house early to meet James, Patrick and the rest of the team to practice. The kitchen staff had gone early as well in order to set up the family's picnic._

_"Mary, darling, you know how much your father enjoys it," Cora answered. "He'd be terribly disappointed if we didn't come."_

_She was only twelve years old, but to Cora, Mary already felt too old for her own good—and far too disinclined to go along with her parents' wishes. It wasn't that she was keen on breaking rules, exactly. She merely had learned to interpret them to her own advantage. Even Sybil, a rambunctious child as ever there was, constantly tugging on her mother or nanny's hand in an effort to run this way or that, sometimes felt easier to control than her eldest sister, now that Mary had grown to consider herself very much a part of the grown-up world and wanting nothing to do with the governess, the nanny or the nursery._

_"Anyway, this is Patrick's first game. Don't you want to watch him play?" Cora asked._

_"Not really," Mary said with a roll of her eyes—another new habit of which her mother was not terribly fond._

_"Do you think he'll look very handsome in his whites?" an eager Edith asked, running up next to her mother on hearing the name of her cousin and favorite person in the world._

_"What do you know about handsome men?" Mary asked snidely._

_"No less than you!" Edith replied._

_"Girls, please, no bickering today."_

_"She started it!" Edith said._

_"I said no bickering." Cora smiled as Edith crossed her arms petulantly, and added, "I'm sure he'll look very fetching." Edith smiled at her mother's words and ran several yards ahead to catch up with Sybil, who was trying to evade nanny's grasp in an effort to jump into the puddles that had collected in the lane after rain the evening before._

_Mary laughed as she watched nanny try to keep her composure as her youngest charge kept darting ahead and evading her grasp._

_"It was silly to have gotten Sybil a new dress for today," Cora said aloud to no one in particular. "She's going to be up to her ears in mud before the match even starts."_

_As the group approached their destination, Mary could see the villagers starting to gather, and among them, she spotted Mrs. Smith, the house's recently retired housekeeper, talking with one of the housemaids. Standing next to Mrs. Smith was a girl only a year younger than Mary, whom Mary recognized immediately, though she hadn't seen her in almost a year._

_In years past, when Mrs. Smith still ran the house, her niece Anna often came to Downton Abbey to help with small tasks downstairs, such as folding laundry or polishing the silver. When Mary first discovered Anna in the kitchens, she began pulling Anna away from her chores, eager for a companion who was not her ever-present sister, Edith. Mrs. Smith didn't particularly like it, but Carson, who had a soft spot for Mary, never minded and always gave Anna his permission to duck away for a bit. Anna was shy and knew her place, so she usually let Mary dominate the conversation, but she was a good listener and, despite her lower circumstances, Mary eventually came to see her as a friend._

_"Mama, may I go say hello to Anna?" Mary asked turning to her mother._

_"Yes, dear, but just for a minute. We should wish papa good luck before the match starts."_

_"Why? The village always wins," Mary said walking off without waiting for a retort from her mother._

_In seeing Mary approach, Anna smiled and waved. She tapped on her aunt's arm, and in turning toward her niece, Mrs. Smith saw Mary and smiled._

_"Hello, Lady Mary," Mrs. Smith said primly. "It's been some time since we've seen you. I see you've grown quite a bit. I hope you and the family are well."_

_"We are, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Smith. I was wondering, would it be all right if Anna walked about the green with me during the match. I don't have any intention of sitting down to watch, you see, and it would be nice to have a bit of company."_

_Mrs. Smith held back a smirk, still perfectly aware of how particular the eldest Crawley daughter could be and of her habit of expecting people to do as she asked. Still, Mrs. Smith knew that Anna would likely enjoy herself, so she consented._

_"Certainly, milady," Mrs. Smith said. Turning to Anna, she added, "Now mind your manners, my dear, and be very polite if you meet Lord or Lady Grantham."_

_"Of course, Auntie," Anna said with a smile._

_The two girls smiled at one another and fell into step as they made their way past the village tent and around the small players' pavilion toward the family's tent._

_"Do you not like cricket, milady?" Anna asked._

_"I couldn't possibly care less about it," Mary said with a sigh._

_"I can't say I have much interest in it either," Anna said with a smile, "but my cousins say that eventually I'll come to enjoy watching, on account of the players who happen to be nice to look at."_

_Anna giggled and looked over at Mary, whose lips were pursed, though Anna knew it was in order to suppress a smile._

_"You can laugh, you know," Anna said. "I won't tell anyone."_

_Mary let out a giggle and said, "I know you wouldn't. I could never wish for a better confidant than you, Anna, and a young lady such as myself must always have someone she trusts."_

_Just then, almost as if on cue, Patrick Crawley walked up to his cousin, ignoring for the most part the village girl standing next to Mary._

_Patrick had turned fifteen just six months before, and in that time, he had made the turn from budding adolescent to young man quite favorably. His shoulders had broadened and he was now his father's height and nearly Robert's, which made him almost a full foot taller than Mary, herself tall for a girl of her age. He cut an imposing figure even to someone not so easily intimidated as his young cousin. Mary, at twelve, was still very much a girl, but her beauty had already begun to mature. Given her height, the dresses she now wore were cinched at the waist, and looked more like the fashions worn by her mother than those of her younger sisters. She also no longer wore her hair down in ringlets like Edith and Sybil, preferring instead to have it pulled away from her face in a long braid that hung halfway down her back. In those small details, Patrick could see hints of the woman Mary would grow up to be—a woman he now knew would play an important role in his grown up life._

_Six years had passed since the birth of the last Crawley daughter, and Robert, it seemed obvious to all, had resigned himself to the idea that Cora would bear no more children, and no direct heir. Patrick was old enough at fifteen to understand what that meant for his future. He also understood, given that future, what would now be expected to happen between himself and Mary._

_Having finally been declared old enough to play in the game, he'd been up early this morning. The activity, the slight wind in the air and his own fingers running through it had tousled his thick, blonde hair. His white shirt was unbuttoned to the point of the V on his sweater vest, revealing a couple of inches of his broadening chest. More than Mary had ever seen. The sight of him was so attractive, in fact, that only a very determined few could have resisted it, and to her own dismay, Mary was not one of them. Her cheeks flushed furiously at the sight of him, which, also to Mary's dismay, did not escape Patrick's notice._

_Having this kind of effect on her normally composed, snobbish demeanor amused him. With a smirk, he said, "Cousin Cora asked me to fetch you. We're about to start."_

_"I'll be by on my own good time," she said, lifting her nose in the air, which made Anna smile._

_Patrick laughed. "Oh, Mary, you're so predictable."_

_He ran back toward the family tent, where Edith immediately ran up to him and threw her arms around his waist. Patrick mussed Edith's hair before playfully pushing her off and running back onto the middle of the pitch where Robert and the village team captain were doing the coin flip to see who would bat first. Mary's eyes had followed him the entire way._

_"I suppose he's grown quite nice looking," Anna said. "But he hasn't gotten much nicer."_

_Mary looked across the field to her cousin, now standing next to her father. "He's papa's heir. He doesn't have to be nice."_

* * *

 

As she made her way back to the house from the village, Anna looked over to the bench that she knew was among Mary's favorite places to escape to on the estate. Seeing her there, looking out into the distance, Anna veered off the path, not worrying too much about the fact that tea would be served soon.

"It's a nice afternoon, isn't it, milady?" Anna asked, announcing her approach.

Mary turned and smiled. "Don't you wish they could all be like this? Winter is dreadfully cold, and summer far too hot, but each year in spring and autumn we get one perfect week."

Anna smiled. "I hope I'm not intruding?"

"Not at all," Mary said, sliding over from the center of the bench to make room for Anna.

"I've just seen Mr. William Moseley at the post office," Anna said. "The cricket match is all the talk of the village."

"It's all the talk with papa, as well," Mary said with a roll of her eyes.

"Still not your cup of tea, I see," Anna said teasingly.

"Hardly. Though I'll admit it's nice to see papa excited about it. When we left here I remember thinking he'd not miss the house so much as the rituals. I suppose the same is true for me."

"Sometimes, when I walk between the house and the village, I forget we were ever gone. History lives inside the walls of the house, but out here, time seems to have stood still."

"That must be why I like this spot so much," Mary said with a soft laugh.

Looking over at Anna, Mary considered that despite the many changes she'd lived through in recent years, the maid remained a constant presence in her life. Though neither Mary nor Anna overstepped the bounds of position—not in the way that Gwen and Sybil had often done—theirs was still the only friendship Mary would never doubt.

"We could go for a walk during the match," Mary said after a moment. "Like old times."

Anna blushed and looked down to her hands on her lap.

"Or not . . . if you have other plans," Mary said, brow furrowing in curiosity.

"Well, I've, um . . . I've told Mr. Bates I would sit with him in the pavilion while he keeps score. He can't play, you see, on account of his injured leg."

Mary smiled knowingly. "Did he invite you to sit with him?"

"No, but I'm going to anyway," Anna said with a small shrug.

"Are you in love with him?" Mary asked quietly.

Anna looked down for a moment, then smiled and met Mary's eyes again. She nodded.

"Does he return your feelings?"

Anna turned to look forward and sighed. "I think he does. . . . Actually, I know he does, but he won't act on it. When he first came to Downton, some years ago now, he seemed troubled by whatever it was brought him here. I still don't know what that was, but I assume it's what keeps him from being fully honest with me. Anyway, I know he's a good man. I can be patient."

Mary smiled. "Well, I suppose this is when I would offer a pearl of wisdom, but I'll just wish you the best. I know you'll be guided rightly by your own heart."

Anna turned her head toward Mary as the latter looked off into the distance once again. "What about you, milady? What about your heart?"

Mary scoffed. "Haven't you heard? I don't have a heart. Everyone knows that."

"Not me, milady."

Mary smiled, turning back toward her maid. "Even so, I'm afraid there's not much to say."

"Not even from Mr. Matthew? He seemed to have a lot to say to you, a few weeks back."

"What do you know about that?" Mary asked, somewhat sternly.

"Please don't mind the intrusion, milady. It's only that Alfred saw you quarreling outside the house after dinner."

"And he thought he'd tell everyone?!"

"No! I swear it. He isn't a gossip. He only told me, and he did so in case . . . well, so I'd be prepared if you needed an understanding ear, that's all. But when I came up that night, you didn't seem to want to talk, so I said nothing."

Mary sat back and sighed. "So why bring it up now?"

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "Because I know it's not in your nature to want to talk about things, but sometimes I think you need to."

Mary smiled a grateful smile, though it did not fully reach her eyes. "Sometimes I wish you didn't know me so well as you do. I apologize for being abrupt with you just now."

"So . . .?"

"We quarrelled over something I did that disappointed him. He was right, and we've made our peace and remain friends. But it seems with him and me, for every step I take forward, I take another back, always to end up in the same place."

"What place is that, milady?"

"A place in which I both ardently wish he would love me and dreadfully fear him actually doing so."

"Why fear something that may make you happy?"

"I'm so used to being unhappy, I wonder if perhaps it's all I'm built for."

"I don't think that's true, milady. I think you'd make a very good happy person."

"Could I be trusted with his happiness?"

Anna smiled. "That's a question only Mr. Matthew can answer, but I think you could."

Mary smiled. "I appreciate your faith in me."

"Maybe," Anna said playfully, "the sight of him playing cricket will be the kick in the pants your heart needs."

Mary looked at Anna for a long moment, then brought her hands to her face to muffle her laughter.

After they'd both calmed, Mary's mind went to the day, more than a decade past, when she saw her one-time fiancé dressed to play the game for the first time.

Mary sighed. "Whites _have_ had that effect on me before."

* * *

"Your sister sent something with the evening post," Cora said to Robert as the two entered the drawing room before dinner. The girls were still upstairs and Violet, Isobel, Matthew and Tom had yet to arrive.

"Oh? What does Rosamond have to say?" Robert asked as Cora sat on the sofa.

"The usual gossip from London, nothing of interest to us, particularly. But she does say she'll be here for the cricket match," Cora answered.

Robert nodded, walking over to the window, hearing his mother's motor coming up the driveway, as well as his own, which was bringing the Reginald Crawleys.

"I was thinking also of inviting Sir Anthony Strallan," Cora added, causing Robert to turn back to her in surprise.

"I thought Mary didn't like him."

"She doesn't," Cora replied. "We would be doing so for Edith's benefit."

Robert raised his eyebrows. "Does _she_ like him?"

"There was something of a spark there when he came to dinner last month. There's no harm in seeing if it survived the passage of a month's time."

"I'll write to him tomorrow."

"Write to whom?" Sybil asked as she came into the drawing room with her sisters.

"Sir Anthony," Cora answered with her eyes on Edith. "You father is going to invite him to sit with us during the match next weekend."

Edith didn't blush, but as she sat next to her mother, she did bring her hand to the base of her neck momentarily, as if to stop the flutter in her heart before it started. None but Cora noticed the gesture.

_The attachment lives on her end, at least_ , Cora thought with a smile.

"Perhaps Edith should have gotten a new hat today, after all," Mary said sitting in the armchair across from her mother.

When no one replied, feeling her family's incredulous eyes on her, Mary added, "Oh surely, we all know he wasn't invited on _my_ behalf?!"

Cora leaned over to squeeze Edith's hand. "You do like him, don't you, darling?"

Seeing all eyes shift from Mary to herself, Edith felt a bit overwhelmed by the sudden attention. "He seems rather a nice person," she offered quietly.

Sybil snickered at what she guessed was nervous understatement.

"He _is_ nice," Cora assured.

A few minutes later, the rest of the party were announced by Carson and filed into the room.

Once they'd all settled in—Violet on the armchair next to Mary, Isobel on the other side of Cora on the sofa, and Sybil, Matthew, Tom and her father standing near the hearth—Cora asked Isobel about her and Sybil's visit to the hospital that morning.

"It was not terribly busy. In this time of year, illness is mostly bidding it's time before the onset of winter and the stream of colds it will bring."

"There was the issue of Mr. Drake," Sybil put in.

"Our tenant?" Robert asked, with some concern.

Isobel nodded. "He has a serious case of dropsy. I'm afraid he may not have much time."

"Oh, dear," Cora said. "And his wife with little ones to deal with. I'll have Mrs. Patmore send a basket this week."

"There is a method of saving him," Isobel said, "but I'm afraid the good doctor and I did not see eye to eye on that point."

Violet chuckled. "Oh, you amaze me," she said looking at Isobel.

"Dr. Clarkson is, as ever, reluctant to embrace some of the newer treatments," Isobel said, ignoring Violet.

"I remember Drake. He is a good man, and far too young to die, but I suppose the doctor knows his business," Robert said.

"Not as well as Cousin Isobel, apparently," Violet said.

"Why shouldn't Cousin Isobel be listened to, granny?" Sybil asked. "Doing nothing, as Dr. Clarkson intends, will condemn the man to death for sure."

"Dr. Clarkson runs the hospital, my dear Sybil, and it is _his_ expertise on which we all depend," Violet retorted. "What benefit will amateur opinions bring to the matter? Or should we all place our trust on an aging volunteer nurse?"

Isobel smiled, in spite of herself, by this point quite used to Violet's abuse and rather amused by it.

Sybil, however, felt anger begin to swell in her belly. "It is not Dr. Clarkson's expertise that is being questioned," she continued, trying to keep calm, "merely his willingness to take a chance for a fellow human being."

"Are we to contend with your meddling now, as well?" Violet asked, raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips in disapproval.

"What meddling?!" Sybil exclaimed. "I'm merely offering the suggestion that he listen to Cousin Isobel and not doom his patients by clinging to old ideas."

"I'll alert the board," Violet spoke sarcastically, looking around to everyone else in the room but Sybil. "All medical decisions lay at the feet of my 18-year-old granddaughter."

Robert tried to get a word in. "Mama—"

"At least I'd be willing to accept when I don't have all the answers," Sybil said, cutting her father off. "Cousin Isobel is only asking that Dr. Clarkson consider something beyond his own narrow experiences. Is that so unacceptable?"

"It is not her place to do so and most certainly not yours!" Violet reprimanded, hitting her cane against the floor.

Sybil's face was now flush with pique. "What do you think would happen if such a condition befell papa? We would call on the best physician available and likely look to London to find him. We'd ask that anything be done so papa could be made well. Mr. Drake's only option is _our_ hospital because he has not the financial wherewithal to seek a medical opinion beyond this village. He is poor, and so his fate is to be decided by a doctor who refuses to look beyond outdated treatments. That isn't fair! And _you_ make it worse by not pushing Dr. Clarkson to do right by his patients when he's all they have. I, for one—"

"Sybil, that's enough!" Robert interrupted, angrily.

"Apologize to your grandmother," Cora said sternly.

"No, no," Violet said, waving her hand. "I'll not take an apology when I know there will be no remorse."

"Sybil?" Cora repeated.

Looking down to her hands, Sybil said quietly. "I'll apologize for my tone, but not my opinions. I'm sorry, granny."

"It's all right it's not your fault," Violet said, eyes squarely Isobel.

"Cousin Violet, if you're afraid I've somehow brainwashed Sybil, I can assure you she can and does think for herself quite apart from anyone's influence, including mine."

"Certainly, I do!" Sybil said, her anger rising again. "Do you really think me so weak that I'll simply go along with whatever anyone says? I am perfectly capable of forming my own opinions."

"Sybil, stop!" Cora called out once again.

"If you cannot keep your temper or your thoughts to yourself, then perhaps you should take dinner in your room," Robert said trying to keep his voice calm so as not to escalate the argument between his mother and daughter.

"Sybil is not wrong, you know," Tom said, speaking up in Sybil's defense.

Sybil looked at him with a grateful smile and saw a pair of shining eyes looking back at her reflecting as much love and pride as they possibly could in a roomful of people.

"What's the harm in asking Dr. Clarkson to look into something that may well keep a man alive," Tom continued. "He has a wife and children and needs his health in order to support them. Their lives should considered also."

"Thank you, Tom," Sybil said quietly.

Violet took a deep breath, as if trying to keep herself so calm in the face of such insubordination. "Lest you think _we_ are not concerned with the well being of the hospital's patients, the board hired Dr. Clarkson because we believed him to be the best doctor available," Violet said. "And I hold still that he was the right choice. I'll not have him second-guessed at every turn, least of all over a fit of pique by a young girl girl who has better things to do."

"A fit of pique?" Sybil said with incredulous laughter. "Are my thoughts and feelings so easily dismissed by you, granny? And what are these better things you think I should be doing? Going to the wretched dressmaker for a frock I'll likely wear only once—?"

Cora stood up quickly. "Sybil, go to your room at once!"

"Fine," Sybil said, squaring her shoulders. "If I can't speak my mind, I'd just as soon not bother with pleasantries and polite conversation."

She moved to walk out, exchanging glances one more time with Tom, who was only sorry that this meant he would not get to see her for the rest of the evening. Because the fact was he'd never been prouder or more in love.

As Sybil stepped through the door, Carson, who was on his way in to announce dinner, stepped aside to let her pass.

"Dinner is served," he said, once inside.

Silently, everyone moved to make their way to the dining room.

"Lady Sybil will be taking a tray in her room, Carson," Cora said quietly as she walked behind him in the hall.

"Very good, milady. I'll have Anna take it up presently."

"She's getting far too headstrong for her own good," Violet said as she sat down. "These hospital visits need to be nipped in the bud, and as soon as possible."

"I know you enjoy our disagreements, Cousin Violet, but please don't take it out on Sybil," Isobel said. "It'll do no good to push her against an expressed interest."

"I realize you think yourself the authority on everything—" Violet started, but Cora cut her off to in an effort to put the topic aside.

" _I_ believe the best thing to do is to give Sybil a night of quiet to cool off and put the matter to rest for the time being."

Mary laughed. "If you think she's cooling off up there, you don't know your own daughter."

"I know her very well, thank you very much," Cora said.

"Then you'll know that the best way to fix her on an idea is to try to push her away from it," Mary said.

"Mary's right," Edith added. "Tell her you wish her to stop volunteering at the hospital, and she'll only become more determined to keep doing it."

No one spoke as the first course was served and the truth of Edith and Mary's words sank in. The silence persisted through most of dinner, broken only by the occasional comment regarding the taste food and the nice weather. As dessert was served, seeing that no other reprieve was coming, Matthew offered an amusing anecdote from his work at the law practice regarding a pair of brothers who came to blows over which of them would inherit their late father's model train set and could not be restrained by Matthew and two of the stewards until four of the firm's secretaries had come in to help.

"Never let it be said that women cannot come to a man's rescue," Tom offered when Matthew was done, causing everyone to laugh and effectively easing any lingering tension.

Matthew smiled and took a drink from his wine. "Silly thing to have to be reminded of when they so often rescue us from ourselves." As he set the glass back down, he looked over at Mary, whose lips twitched into a subtle smile, a smile he'd come to recognize as one she reserved for him.

After a moment, she asked, "So Matthew, what may we expect from you on the cricket pitch?"

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Robert, who'd immediately brightened at the mention of upcoming match. "We're to have a practice on Thursday, assuming we can assemble the team by then."

As soon as Mary had spoken the words Matthew's eyes widened slightly, and he looked over at Tom, sitting across the table from him. Tom knew Mathew well enough to know exactly what the look meant.

_Don't stir the pot._

Tom smiled and shook his head at his friend.

"Everyone here is very much looking forward to the event," Cora said. "Isn't that right, Carson?"

"Indeed, my lady," Carson replied with a nod as he walked back to the head of the room, having finished pouring the port.

"I hope that includes you, Thomas," Robert added, as Thomas bent over for Robert to take his dessert. "Thomas is our star player," Robert said to the rest of the table.

"I do what I can, my Lord," Thomas said with his usual dour expression, though Tom could tell that the footman was pleased to have been singled out in this way.

"What about you, Alfred?" Edith asked.

"I can hold my own, milady," Alfred answered.

"I do look forward to seeing how you two do," Robert said, looking back and forth between Matthew and Tom, who in turn looked at each other.

"Well it's been some years since I've played," Matthew said carefully, "but I could handle a bat back in school and at university."

"Excellent!" Robert said smiling.

Matthew hesitated before speaking again. Then, for his best friend's benefit and no other reason, he asked, "Does this mean you would like us on the house team?"

"Well, of course!" Robert said.

Mary rolled her eyes, and smiling, said, "You'll have to forgive papa. He likes to assume people will do his bidding because he doesn't like to bother with the asking."

Robert sighed. "I assume there is no need to ask since we are all family, but if I must, would you boys like be part of our cricket team?"

"I'd be happy to, Robert," Matthew said with a smile. "Though I'm afraid Tom is going to need persuading to play."

"What?" Robert looked over at Tom, a bit incredulous. "Does Matthew mean that you won't play?

Tom scratched the back of his head and considered the best approach to explaining his position to Robert without raising his ire too much. Finally, he settled on merely answering Robert's question. "No—that is, yes, that's what he means. I won't play."

"Don't be silly of course you will!" Robert said.

"No, I won't. If it were something else, I might help, but I don't like cricket, and to be honest I've never played an actual game of it before in my life."

"But couldn't you try?" Robert insisted.

"Robert stop being such a bully," Cora cut in.

Robert looked at his wife annoyed, "But how else are we to have a team?"

Ignoring Robert's question Cora stood up. "That was a nice dinner, I think. Ladies, why don't we leave the men to sort this all out for themselves."

Robert, Matthew and Tom all stood as the women made their way out.

"But I'd like to know Tom's objection," Edith said, casting a teasing glance at him.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Edith. It's a political objection, surely," Violet said, walking around the table exasperated. "Don't you know him by now?"

Tom laughed. "If _you_ think me so predictable, Cousin Violet, why don't you make my arguments for me?"

"You've dug this hole," she said pointedly, "you can climb back out on your own, though you'd do well to be reminded that it's only a game."

Tom opened his mouth to speak up, but Violet waved him off. "I know, I know. Nothing's ever 'only' anything with you. Doesn't make my statement any less true."

Tom laughed again as he sat back down, but looking over at Robert he saw that there was little humor in his expression. "Do you need reminding that it's just a game, Robert?" Tom asked, smiling.

"You know," Matthew said, standing up quickly, deciding that he didn't want to be caught in the middle of what was about to happen, "I think I'll just leave you two to have it out."

Robert followed Matthew with his eyes, but did not object to his departure. When Matthew had gone, Robert stood up and walked over to the side table where Carson had set the cognac and glasses, not bothering to wait for the butler to come back to serve.

"It's not _just_ a game, Tom," he said calmly as he poured. "It's a tradition, a tradition my grandfather started to strengthen the bonds between the family and the village. But I know tradition to you is nothing but a soap-box on which to stand."

Tom watched Robert as he came back over to the table and set a glass in front of Tom, then sat back down and took a sip of his own. Tom picked up the glass, swirled the liquid around the glass for a moment, then spoke, calm and quiet but with conviction. "You think I don't value tradition at all because I don't value _your_ traditions in the manner in which you do, which is your problem. The truth is I value tradition a great deal. _Irish_ tradition. Everything that my mother has taught me about herself and my father, I plan to pass on to my own children, but the idea that I should pass on the lessons of an Irish cook and a mill worker is incomprehensible to the English aristocracy. You measure all men by what you and other gentlemen of your position have done or would do, and declare any who don't measure up to be inferior in spite of the fact that many of us _choose_ not to be like you out of our own free will and, indeed, _can't_ be like you even if we wanted. It's a all bit contradictory, to be honest."

"I assume you'll explain what you mean by that," Robert said, sitting back in his chair, though his eyes never veered from those of the young man sitting across the table from him.

"Well," Tom continued, "aristocratic men think that I should want to be like them and that I should behave like them. But the fact is, regardless of how I behave, they will never accept me, not completely, because I wasn't _born_ like them. Why bother telling people to behave in a 'civilized' way, if acceptance into what you would call 'civilized society' has already been denied them at birth? The truth is, Robert, every monument to civilization is, in effect, a monument to barbarism."

"Barbarism!" Robert said rolling his eyes. "Heavens, Tom. I don't think, even mama would have guessed that's what would come out of your mouth. Is that really your opinion of Englishmen—even after having been raised by one so generous to you as Reginald?"

"I loved Uncle Reg with my whole heart and would give anything if the world could be as he saw it. He was an idealist unlike any I've met, and I do wish I were more like him. But to answer your question, no, that's not what I think of the English. It's what I think of empire and the class system. The English just happen to be more efficient users of those devices than most."

"Are you so rigid in your thinking that you won't even see cricket as a sign of goodwill, a desire for friendlier cooperation?"

"Compelling the colonized to take up cricket is a gesture intended to demonstrate superiority, not goodwill. Goodwill would have been to adopt the local population's cultures, not export your own."

"Is it exhausting do think the way you do?" Robert asked, a hint of a smile on his face.

Tom smirked. "Is it exhausting to condescend the way _you_ do?"

Robert sighed, then took the last of his drink in one gulp. Placing his glass back on the table, he said, "Fine then, don't play."

Robert stood, and Tom, seeing that the conversation was over, finished his own drink. As Tom stood, he saw Robert turn around toward him again in the dining room doorway.

"You're very eloquent," Robert said, as if surprised he was even saying the words.

Tom slumped his shoulders a bit and looked down, suddenly feeling somewhat embarrassed by the praise.

Robert smiled at Tom's humble reaction and added, "As punishment for not playing, I'm giving you the job of hiring another chauffeur. I'll hear nothing of 'I told you so.' If he can start by Saturday and is a decent bowler all the better."

Tom laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

When Matthew had left the dining room so Tom and Robert could speak alone, he began walking through the hall to the drawing room, but stopped himself going in, wondering if he'd be intruding on the ladies by following after them so soon. He turned to go toward the library, when he heard someone step out. It was Mary.

"Oh!" She said. "I wasn't expecting to see you there."

Matthew smiled. "I thought it best to let Tom and your father figure things out for themselves."

"Papa is very protective of his cricket team. I dare say in his mind unwillingness to play will be a darker mark on Tom's character than his socialism."

Matthew laughed. "Tom will find a way to be amused by that."

"I should tell Sybil," Mary said. "He'd likely play at _her_ urging, and it'll be one less thing for papa to complain about when they marry."

Matthew eyes widened in shock, which caused Mary to smile.

"She's my sister, Matthew. Did you honestly think I didn't know?"

"I hadn't considered it, really. . . . do you approve?"

"Approval is really moot question when it comes to Sybil."

Matthew looked down. "With regard to your parents, perhaps, but that's not what I'm asking."

"I want Sybil to be happy. I suppose I've met my share of men since I came out, and even I must admit I haven't come across one better suited for her, but in saying that I should acknowledge that she and I are different people."

Matthew let out a breath. "I see."

Mary's brow furrowed. "No, um . . . I didn't intend that to mean—"

"It's all right, Mary," Matthew said quietly. "I understand your meaning."

"I don't think you do," she said, tilting her head seeking out his eyes. "That wasn't directed at—well, anything, really. It's just the truth."

"Who, then, would suit you?" Matthew asked.

"Someone with plenty of money who doesn't ask questions."

He laughed softly, and Mary was pleased at herself for having gotten him to do so.

"Well, if you were on your way somewhere, I apologize for having cut you off," he said, stepping aside for her. "I think it's OK for me to go in now," he added, gesturing toward the drawing room door.

"I was just going to check on Sybil for a moment," Mary said. She took several steps, but not hearing him walk in the opposite direction, she turned back around and sure enough, he was standing in the same spot watching her go.

"Someone who wants to know who I really am," she said. "That's who would suit me."

"That's all?" He asked with a small smile.

"Oh, Matthew, the fact that you think it a small task tells me you have a ways to go yet."

Matthew smiled sweetly, in a way that made Mary's breath catch. She turned back around and headed off toward the stairs. Once again, she could tell he was not moving from where he was standing, but she didn't mind knowing he was watching her go. She liked it, in fact.

* * *

When Mary came back down the stairs, Tom and Robert had joined the rest of the family in the drawing room. There seemed to be no lingering animosity between the two of them, but Tom, Mary learned, remained steadfast in his decision not to play.

Later in the evening, when Isobel, Matthew and Tom were leaving, Mary found a moment to discreetly give Tom a small slip of paper that she'd been hiding in her glove since she'd left Sybil's room. Tom was surprised to receive it, but one eyebrow raise from Mary and he smiled bashfully, knowing immediately what it was. He slipped it into his pocket and didn't open it until he was alone in his room at Crawley House, which was rather a good thing, given how much the note's contents made him laugh.

_My dearest Tom,_ _  
_ _I've spent all evening thinking of you wearing cricket whites. Am I to be disappointed come Saturday?_ _  
_ _Yours, Sybil_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on Anna and Mary: During an interview with Michelle Dockery and Joanne Froggatt (I think—my memory is terrible), one of them made mention of the fact that Fellowes once told Michelle that it was common for children of country houses to know and be friends with children from the neighboring villages, some of whom would grow up to go into service in those houses, and that Anna and Mary would have probably known each other and played together as children. It may seem far fetched, but consider that Mary trusts Anna with her life (as we saw on the show with the Pamuk death). In my mind, given how reticent Mary is to let her guard down around anyone, that trust doesn't come merely from Anna having dressed Mary for a few years, it comes from a friendship that predates their lady-servant relationship.
> 
> Also, when Tom says, "every monument to civilization is, in effect, a monument to barbarism," this is a paraphrase of a quote from the German philosopher Walter Benjamin: "There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism." I would have had Tom mention Benjamin, except that he hadn't yet written the work I quoted at the Tom this is taking place.


	37. Sybil's Purpose in Life

 

In the days that followed Sybil and Violet's confrontation regarding Mr. Drake's treatment, no more mention was made of the topic among the family. Knowing her parents' watchful eyes were on her more acutely than normal, Sybil chose not to push the envelope and stayed home for the most part, keeping quiet about when she might go back to the hospital. Contrary to what her parents and grandmother might have made of that, however, Mr. Drake's health remained at the top of Sybil's mind. In fact, even though she hadn't had a chance to talk with Isobel about it, Sybil had formulated a plan to address the situation and simply needed a bit of help to carry it out. That help came on Wednesday in the form of estate manager William Mason.

Tom had come over to the house early so he could discuss his plan for the new chauffeur with Pratt before filling Robert in later in the morning, a fact Robert had let slip at breakfast. The Reginald Crawleys hadn't dined at Downton Abbey since the Saturday night of Sybil's outburst, so this being her first opportunity to see Tom in several days, Sybil was waiting in the yard outside the garage for him to finish when she saw William walking up to the service entrance.

"Good morning, Lady Sybil," William said cheerfully, removing his hat.

"Hello, Mason," she said. "Are you here to meet with Lord Grantham?"

"Yes, milady, and Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson."

"Mr. Branson is talking with Pratt at the moment, and I don't believe Mr. Crawley has arrived yet. We can have Carson telephone Crawley House, if you'd like, to let him know you're here."

"No need, milady. I always come a bit early so I can say hello to old friends. I'm happy to wait for Mr. Crawley."

Sybil smiled. "It's hard for me to remember you used to be a footman here. That was so long ago now."

William fidgeted with his hat. "And yet to me it seems like yesterday."

"Do you miss it?"

"I miss the people," William said quietly. "I'm never exactly alone in _this_ job, but it's not quite the same. I don't mean to sound ungrateful—"

"Oh, please don't worry about that. I'm glad to know that you have pleasant memories of working here. I'm sure Lord and Lady Grantham would feel the same."

William smiled bashfully. "Well, I won't take any more of your time, milady."

"Actually, Mason," Sybil said moving to follow him as he stepped away. "Now that you're here, it's rather lucky that I've run into you. I wonder if you could help me with something. I was going to ask Mr. Branson, but you probably have better knowledge of this than he does."

William's brow furrowed. "I can try," he replied, "but I can't think of anything I have better knowledge of than he would."

"Well, I'm sure you are aware of Mr. Drake's illness."

"I am," William said. "Mr. Drake has Longfield Farm. We've brought in some extra lads to help see to it while he's in the hospital."

"Mrs. Patmore is making up a basket of food for the family, and I know it's likely that one of the hallboys will be tasked with delivering it. I'd like to do it myself, only I don't know where they live exactly. Could you tell me where Longfield Farm is?"

"I'd be happy to, miladay, but I could also deliver the parcel myself so you don't have to."

"Oh, I couldn't trouble you with that when you've actual business to attend to! And anyway, it's been a few weeks since I've ridden my bicycle and it's a nice day. I'll enjoy taking it myself. It'll be nice that they know they have the family's support."

"All right, then. I'll just write the information down and give it to Mrs. Patmore when I see her in a bit."

"Thank you! I really appreciate it!" Sybil said excitedly.

Sybil watched William walk into the servants hall, then turned quickly toward the garage, not realizing that Tom was walking up behind her.

"Oh!" She exclaimed as he caught her after she bumped into him.

"Good morning," he said smiling, continuing to hold onto her shoulders after she'd regained her balance, merely for the chance to touch her. "Has the naughty princess finally been let out from her tower?" He asked playfully.

Sybil rolled her eyes. "I forget sometimes that it can be a crime to merely speak in this house."

"You had every right," he said firmly. "And you were in the right."

She smiled. "Thank you, and now I have a chance to do something about it."

Tom looked at Sybil curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I wish we could talk now but there's no time," she said, moving toward the garage. "I have to ask Pratt to get my bicycle out."

"Where are you going?" Tom called out.

Sybil turned and waved. "You'll see!"

Tom laughed as she went into the garage. He scratched his head for a moment, wondering what she was up to, then turned to go into the house.

* * *

About a quarter of an hour later, Sybil was on her way.

After asking Pratt to bring her bicycle out of the garage, she went into the servants hall and asked the housemaid Alice to fetch her hat and coat and bring it into the yard. Then, she got the basket and directions from Mrs. Patmore, and while she waited for Alice to come back down, Peter, one of the hallboys, helped her secure the basket onto her bicycle.

She'd have liked to talk to Tom for longer than a mere moment and ask his opinion on what she was about to do, but as she pedaled toward Longfield Farm, it occurred to her that it was best that he not know. It was likely that after everything was done, she would be reprimanded again—or worse—and she knew him well enough to know that he'd likely try to take some of the blame, even if he'd had nothing to do with the scheme, in order to protect her from her parents' wrath. But Sybil was not afraid of what Robert or Cora would do or say. How could she when a man's life was on the line? The twisted morality of her position was such that the supposedly "correct" way to behave in this situation would be to leave well enough alone, keep her opinions to herself and allow Dr. Clarkson's shortsighted care to rule the day. But Sybil saw things differently. To refrain from acting on Mr. Drake's behalf merely to sooth her family's ire was, in her mind, the greater sin. Her actions were hers alone. And as she rode in quiet determination, she was resolute and prepared for whatever consequences would come.

Longfield Farm was on the outer edges of the estate, so it took some time and effort for Sybil to get there. As she neared her destination, she was a bit out of breath. Based on William's instructions, she knew she was close and upon reaching the top of a small hill, she stopped for a short rest and saw the farmhouse finally come into view. The road sloped down, and Sybil happily cruised to the bottom. To her right as she approached, the sheep were grazing in the paddock, and seeing one of the farm hands sitting on the fence watching over them, Sybil raised her arm and waved, smiling at the young man's confused expression. The sheepdog that had been sitting at the young man's feet got up and began running along the fence and barking at Sybil. When it reached the edge of the paddock, the dog leaped over the fence and continued to follow Sybil until she came to a stop just outside the house door. She barely had time to hop off the bicycle before the dog was upon her. Having been caught off balance, she fell onto her back as the dog pushed her over and began to lick her face. Sybil yelped and laughed at the creature's play.

"Dodger! Get off, you silly beast!"

Mrs. Drake had heard the commotion outside, ran out of the house and quickly pulled the dog off the visitor. Her eyes widened when she realized it was one of the Crawley daughters.

"Oh, milady! Deepest apologies!" She exclaimed, still trying to hold the dog back.

Sybil laughed as she stood and brushed the dirt and mud off her skirt. "It's quite all right," she said, kneeling again and motioning for the dog to come forward, which he did, tail still wagging furiously, and set to licking Sybil's face up and down once more, this time with her permission.

"Sorry 'bout that!"

Sybil looked up to see the farmhand running up behind Mrs. Drake.

"Took off running before I had a chance to stop him," the young man said, bending over to try to catch his breath.

"That wretched dog's got spirit, all right," Mrs. Drake said. More quietly, she added, "Only minds one master, I'm afraid."

Sybil looked up to Mrs. Drake from where she was scratching the dog's ears, then looked back down and into the dog's eyes. "You must miss him, very much, old boy," Sybil said. After a moment Sybil stood again. "I hope you'll pardon the intrusion Mrs. Drake. I'm Sybil Crawley. I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

Mrs. Drake nodded uncertainly, then turned to the farmhand and said, "Take him away, will you? And mind he doesn't run off again."

The young man straightened up and called out, "Come on, Dodger! Come along!"

The dog made a circle around Sybil but eventually followed, and Mrs. Drake and Sybil were left alone.

Mrs. Drake was a small, plain woman, about 30 or so years of age from what Sybil could tell, with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on the back of her head. Despite her small size, Sybil could see strength in her frame and the way she stood, with shoulders set back proudly—strength that Sybil could only imagine was a byproduct of helping her husband in his work. Immediately, she had Sybil's respect.

"Given Mr. Drakes' condition, the family thought you might like to have some extra supplies and food," Sybil said, moving to take the basket off the bicycle.

Mrs. Drake stepped forward to help her. "You're very kind, milady."

"It's the very least we could do."

Mrs. Drake nodded taking the basket into her hands. The two stood in silence for about a minute, and Sybil realized that Mrs. Drake assumed she'd give her the basket and leave straight away.

"I do hate to impose on you, Mrs. Drake," Sybil continued. "I know how busy you must be, and I don't want to burden you any further, but I wonder if I may have another moment of your time."

Mrs. Drake's eyes widened. "Well, we don't really have a sitting area fit to host a lady such as yourself, so you'll pardon my rudeness for not inviting you in."

"Please don't concern yourself with that. I'd like to talk with you about, um . . . about your husband's condition. Whether outside or in, is up to you. I'll be most comfortable where you are most comfortable."

Mrs. Drake gave a small smile, and Sybil couldn't help but detect a measure of skepticism in it, so she went on.

"I know my being here may seem strange," Sybil said. "You'd not be the first to note that my behavior is unusual for a person of my position, but I'd like to help. Whether you accept that help is your choice and yours alone and shall be accepted by me without prejudice. You need not fear offending me if you choose not to listen to what I have to say."

Mrs. Drake's brow furrowed a bit as she considered Sybil's words. Then, after a moment, she said, "Will you excuse me for a moment?"

Sybil nodded, and Mrs. Drake walked over to the door of the house, opened it and called out, "Mariah?"

A minute or so later, a little girl, perhaps five years old, came to the door. Her mother leaned over and said, "Take this to the kitchen, dearest. I'll come back in shortly."

The little girl took the basket, which might have weighed as much as she did. "Who's that, mummy?"

Mrs. Drake looked at Sybil, then back to her daughter. "That's Lady Sybil. She's come to offer some help, now go and take this to the kitchen."

"Is she going to help papa?"

Mrs. Drake sighed. "Just mind your mummy and go back inside." She pushed the girl along and closed the door behind her again. She walked back toward Sybil, who was still staring in the direction of the door Mrs. Drake had just closed, as if trying to look past it, and into the house, to follow the path the little girl would take.

"I hope you don't find me rude, milady, but I'd prefer if we speak outside, if that's all right."

Mrs. Drake's words brought Sybil back into the moment. "Of course," Sybil replied. "This is _your_ home. I'm the one imposing on you with an unannounced visit, and I do apologize. In my urgency this morning, it didn't occur to me—"

"Urgency?" Mrs. Drake asked a bit alarmed. "Is everything all right at the hospital, with my husband?"

"Everything is as it's been, which is to say that he remains in a critical state. I've not been to the hospital myself since Saturday, but one of the maids of the house was by yesterday and she told me his condition is unchanged."

Mrs. Drake nodded, a measure of relief on her face. "I sat with him for some time Sunday after church, but so much needs doing here and without him to take care of it all . . . the lads have been a good help, but it's not the same. It's hard to see him there helpless, when he used to be so strong."

Sybil bit her lip. When she'd mounted her bicycle and set off, she was determined to persuade Mrs. Drake to go to Dr. Clarkson herself with Isobel's proposed treatment and, as next of kin, demand that the doctor do his best to implement it and save the man. But the sight of the little girl, the sound of her wispy voice as she asked after her father, was like a dagger to Sybil's confidence. Would her defiance be worth anything if this small child still lost her father? If this woman lost her husband? The responsibility that rested on Dr. Clarkson's hands suddenly became all too clear to Sybil. He offered help and comfort where he could, but he could not offer hope, not too much, not to those for whom its promises were too often false.

Wasn't it true, after all, that those who were poor were taught _not_ to hope? That was the lesson that Gwen had very gently tried to impress upon Sybil once.

_You're brought up to think it's all within your grasp, that if you want something enough it will come to you. Well, we're not like that. We don't think our dreams are bound to come true, because . . . because they almost never do._

To offer the possibility of a cure now would be to offer hope, and what trust could Mrs. Drake have in Sybil to deliver on that hope?

"Does it remain true that nothing may be done?" Mrs. Drake asked meekly. "Dr. Clarkson has leveled with me as to his chances, but when there's nothing left, there's still hope, right?"

Sybil looked deep into Mrs. Drake's eyes. _When there's nothing left, there's still hope_ , Sybil thought, _and who I am to withhold hope?_

"That's actually why I'm here, Mrs. Drake," she said finally. "To talk to you about what may be done."

"So there's something?"

Sybil took a deep breath. "I am neither a nurse nor a doctor, so please do not mistake me. Unfortunately, I cannot promise that your husband will get well." She paused, gathered what courage she could and continued. "You may know that Mrs. Isobel Crawley, my cousin and mother to Lord Grantham's heir, trained as a nurse and served during the Boer wars. Her husband was a doctor and she assisted him in his practice, so she has some knowledge of Mr. Drake's condition. She believes there is a treatment that may save him."

Mrs. Drake's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and indignation. "But Dr. Clarkson said there was no treatment! Was he wrong?!"

"He is reluctant because he has not performed the procedure before. There are complications and . . . well, Mr. Drake might not come through, you see."

"But he'll have a chance?"

"Again, Mrs. Drake I feel I must impress upon you that I cannot make you any promise regarding Mr. Drake's recovery."

"But he'll have a _chance_?" Mrs. Drake repeated.

Sybil smiled. "Yes. If this treatment is administered, he will a chance."

"And you came here to tell me about it, so that I'd be the one to persuade Dr. Clarkson?"

"I did. I hope you don't see it as an affront to his authority as the village doctor, or as a lack of faith in his skills as a physician."

"It's all right milady. I'm perfectly aware that men don't have all the answers. And that sometimes they need to be reminded of that."

Sybil smiled again. "He means to protect you from having to make a difficult decision, but I rather think that you are strong enough to make it."

Mrs. Drake smiled confidently. "Life has not given me much, my lady, but I've got fortitude in spades."

"Good," Sybil said nodding affirmatively.

"I'd like to do this today, if possible," Mrs. Drake said. "Only I need to wait for my sister to come see to the children. She should be by soon."

"I'll tell you what," Sybil said, "I'll be off now to fetch Mrs. Crawley. Once I've told her of our plans, I'll return to the house and come back with the motor to pick you up."

Mrs. Drake looked taken aback and didn't say anything.

"I think that time is of the essence in this matter, don't you? It'll take far too long for you to walk into the village on your own."

Mrs. Drake only nodded, still taken aback at the lengths to which Sybil seemed to be willing to go for her and for her husband.

"I'll be off then," Sybil said, walking back toward her bicycle with Mrs. Drake following behind. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I can't tell you what this means, milady."

Sybil smiled as she hopped on her bicycle. "Well, let's just hope that it all works out for the best."

"No, I . . . even if it doesn't—even if . . . the worst happens, I'm prepared for that. What I mean to say is, it means a great deal that you would be willing to take a chance for us."

"Well it's like you said, when there's nothing left, there's still hope, and I'm of the mind that hope exists in equal measure for all of us."

With that, Sybil pushed off the ground and began to pedal as quickly as she could.

* * *

Halfway back from Longfield Farm, at the point where the road diverged, with one path going toward the village and the other toward the house, Sybil made a split-moment decision and turned for Downton Abbey, instead of toward the village and Crawley House. She figured she could save time by simply calling Isobel from the house telephone and meeting her at the hospital with Mrs. Drake. Luckily for Sybil, at the moment she practically dropped her bicycle in the yard and ran back into the house, her father, Matthew and Tom were still deep into their discussion with William in the library and, therefore, did not see or hear her make the call from the telephone in the entrance hall.

It was a short conversation. Isobel was surprised by Sybil's boldness but supported the plan straight away. The truth was, she herself had been thinking about how to approach Dr. Clarkson about the issue again in a manner that would make him reconsider his position. She quickly got her hat and coat, alerted Claire that she'd likely be gone for luncheon and headed out. It wasn't until Isobel was on her way that the possible ramifications of Sybil's actions began to worry Isobel. She knew Sybil to be a thoughtful, caring person and believed she would not have naively promised a positive outcome to Mrs. Drake. And anyway, there was no use in concerning herself with that now, not when things had already been set in motion. There was, however, another worry that she could not shake from her mind—how the family would react, Sybil's grandmother in particular. Isobel was well used to Violet by now, but given the events of Saturday evening, Isobel had to admit that come death or life for Mr. Drake, the burden of the reaction would rest more heavily Sybil's shoulders than her own, no matter what efforts Isobel could take to shield Sybil from whatever that reaction might be.

Meanwhile, back at the house, once Sybil hung up, she ran back down to the garage for Pratt and the motor, praying that he was not otherwise engaged. Once again, luck was on her side. He was free and had not been ordered to drive anyone before luncheon. So the two set out back toward Longfield Farm.

Had they left some twenty minutes later—if Pratt had been tinkering with the engine when Sybil sought him out or if Sybil had chosen to rest or freshen up before leaving again—they might have been spotted on the road by Cora as she walked back to the house from the village with Edith. They had seen Isobel on her way to the hospital but noticing the focus of her step, did not bother to call out to her from across the road. If Cora had seen Sybil, she might have put two and two together. As it was, she assumed her youngest daughter remained in the house, the ire that had arisen in her over the weekend, Cora hoped, long forgotten. But despite how easily Sybil had been able to leave the house and take the motor to aid in her purposes, divine providence did not see fit to remove _all_ obstacles from her path.

Indeed, as Cora and Edith walked home, they were passed by Violet's motor, the Dowager Countess being herself on the way to the house. Her chauffeur recognized Lady Grantham and Lady Edith easily and asked his mistress permission to stop in order to pick them up. Violet granted it, and Cora and Edith were happy for the rescue on what had turned out to be a warmer morning than either anticipated. The chauffeur hadn't so much as restarted the engine when Cora made mention of Isobel.

"Poor Dr. Clarkson," Violet said with a sigh. "And what has he done to deserve that termagant?"

"Granny, why must you be so unforgiving," Edith said. "Cousin Isobel is only trying to help. The same of true of Sybil."

"Don't remind me of that unpleasantness," Violet responded. "Once the calendar turns and Sybil can begin to look forward to June, perhaps, she'll be done with all this nonsense."

Edith could only sit back and shake her head.

"Well, Sybil's intentions aside, I think he's in for another uncomfortable afternoon at Isobel's hands," Cora said.

Violet looked taken aback. "Really? Why?"

"In the village, we saw her go into the hospital," Cora answered. "She looked extremely _determined_."

Violet rapped her cane against the floor of the motor. "Not as determined as I am!"

"What do you plan to do about it?" Edith asked. "You've known she's been volunteering at the hospital since she came to Downton. Did you honestly not guess before Saturday that she offers Dr. Clarkson her opinion, even when they disagree?"

"My dear, you couldn't begin to guess my assumptions when it comes to Isobel, and just because she's been walking around the place like she owns it for the past year, that doesn't mean I can't put a stop to it now. I'm president of the board."

"Isn't she chairwoman?" Edith asked, with a playful smile.

Violet narrowed her eyes at her granddaughter in a way that suggested Edith should not pursue her argument further. Directing her attention forward, she called out, "Kingston?"

"Yes, your ladyship?"

"After we leave Lady Grantham and Lady Edith at the house, we'll be returning to the village—the hospital to be exact."

"Certainly, your ladyship."

"And do hurry it up please, a man's dignity is at stake."

"I'm not sure Dr. Clarkson would be pleased to know you mean to protect his interests so righteously," Edith said.

"Oh, not him," Violet said. "I mean Mr. Drake. I intend for the poor soul to be allowed to die in peace if I have to kill everyone else myself."

* * *

Isobel didn't bother with removing her coat and hat when she stepped into the hospital building and headed straight for the medical stores. The two nurses who were on duty at the stores knew her well and so did not question her taking anything, but having heard of the disagreement between her and the doctor, they followed her with their eyes as she marched down the hall toward his office. She raised her hand to knock but thought better of it and, instead, returned to the hospital entryway and sat down to wait. When Sybil arrived with Mrs. Drake, Isobel stood immediately.

"Good morning, Mrs. Drake," Isobel said. "Are you quite prepared for what's to come?"

"I am, Mrs. Crawley," she said.

"And you, my dear?" She asked, looking to Sybil.

"This is the right thing to do," Sybil said.

"Well, we'll give the doctor one more chance," Isobel said. "I'll speak with him, and if he won't budge—"

"Then _I'll_ speak with him," Mrs. Drake said with finality.

Isobel nodded and then turned and walked back down the hall. When she stepped into Dr. Clarkson's office, it didn't take much guessing on his part to know why she was there.

"I have the adrenaline here in my hand," she said, dispensing with any pleasantries. "Will you really deny the man his chance of life?"

Dr. Clarkson sighed. "I just wish it was a treatment I was more familiar with."

"Will that serve as your excuse when he dies?"

Dr. Clarkson looked at Isobel for a long moment. He pushed himself off of his chair, took the vial from her and opened the door. "Nurse!"

Quickly, one came to the door.

"Can you prepare Mr. Drake for his procedure, please?" He said.

Isobel held back a smile, pleased that the doctor had made his choice from her medical advice and not the emotional plea from Mrs. Drake that she and Sybil had been prepared to present him with.

After speaking to the nurse, Dr. Clarkson looked back toward Isobel. With weariness and challenge in his eyes, he said, "Well, Mrs. Crawley, I have a feeling we will sink or swim together."

In the hall, Sybil and Mrs. Drake had heard Dr. Clarkson's order. On seeing the nurse walk past them on her way to where she knew her husband lay in misery, Emiline Drake's resolve faltered. With watery eyes, she looked at Sybil, "I suppose this is it, ain't it? I'll leave here with a recovering husband or I'll leave a widow."

Sybil took the woman's hands. "Courage, Mrs. Drake. Even while we prepare for all outcomes, we must hope for the best."

Mrs. Drake looked down at their hands and nodded uncertainly.

"Let us go to him," Sybil said. "So you'll be by his side no matter what."

The two women walked into the hospital's main ward and to John Drake's bedside, where the nurse had already removed his shirt and was wiping down his chest with an alcohol soaked puff of cotton. Sybil pulled up a chair and motioned for Mrs. Drake to sit down. She did, immediately taking her husband's hand. Sybil moved to stand behind her, as Dr. Clarkson and Isobel came around the curtain. The doctor, who had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, hesitated for a moment, seeing both of them there, but continued on to the foot of his patient's bed without a word.

The nurse moved to give the doctor room, and a second nurse appeared shortly thereafter with a tray on which the instruments for the procedure were laid out. There being no more reason for delay, Dr. Clarkson took one more look at Isobel, who nodded encouragingly. Finally, addressing his patient, Dr. Clarkson spoke, "Mr. Drake, your heart is not functioning properly and, as a result, your pericardial sac is full of fluid. I am proposing first to withdraw the fluid, and then to inject the adrenaline to stimulate the heart and restore normal activity."

"Is it dangerous, Doctor?" Mrs. Drake asked, concern dripping from every syllable.

"The draining may stop the heart, and the adrenaline may not be able to restart it," Dr. Clarkson answered plainly.

"Mrs. Drake, the choice is simple," Isobel said. "If your husband endures this procedure, he may live. If not, he will die."

Behind her, Mrs. Drake felt Sybil squeeze her shoulder and too fraught with love for a man she could not bear to lose to think about impropriety, took Sybil's hand and held it. She took a deep breath and, looking back at Dr. Clarkson, nodded for him to proceed.

But the doctor hadn't taken a step forward before a huffy voice beyond the curtain made all heads turn in its direction.

"Please, please. No, let me pass. I must see the doctor at once."

Sybil recognized her grandmother immediately, and let out a frustrated sigh as she came around the screen. Mrs. Drake let go of Sybil's hand and her husband's and stood.

"Your ladyship!" Dr. Clarkson said.

Violet's lips were in a firm, unforgiving line as she looked around. "Yes, it's just as I thought. Dr. Clarkson, tell me you will not permit this amateur to influence your professional opinion."

"Amateur?" Isobel repeated quietly.

"Granny!" Sybil exclaimed indignant.

Violet looked sharply at her granddaughter for a moment before taking a step forward and speaking to Mrs. Drake directly. "My dear woman, do not let them bully you. My granddaughter may mean well, but this is not a matter in which she has any business interfering. They'll not disturb the peace of your husband's last hours, not if I can help it."

Mrs. Drake took several breaths to calm herself. "But that's just it, my lady," she said, her voice faltering. "I don't want them to be his last hours. Not if there's a chance." She looked at Dr. Clarkson again and stepped out of his way. "Please, Doctor, do what you must."

Sybil put her hands on Mrs. Drake's shoulders and pulled her aside, giving her a slight squeeze of encouragement. As Dr. Clarkson stepped into where Mrs. Drake had been sitting, the nurse handed him a needle and the head of a draining tube, onto which Dr. Clarkson attached the needle.

Violet blanched, realizing what was about to happen. "As—"

"Granny, please!" Sybil cut in quietly.

The two exchanged hard glances before looking back at the doctor and his patient.

With the nurse's hands on Mr. Drake to hold him steady, Dr. Clarkson pushed the needle into the man's chest cavity. Unable to bear witness any longer, Mrs. Drake turned away and, accepting Sybil's comforting shoulder, cried as silently as she could.

"Steady," Dr. Clarkson said quietly, as the pericardial fluid began to fill the pump. "Yeah, all right."

"Yes," the nurse said, following Dr. Clarkson's lead.

Dr. Clarkson's hands steadied as the fluid continued to come out. "Nice and steady."

As the procedure continued, Violet regained her composure and spoke again, "As president of this hospital, I feel I must . . ."

"Valve," Dr. Clarkson said to the nurse, too deep into his task to listen to Violet. Following his order, the nurse turned the nozzle on the pump, and Dr. Clarkson pushed the liquid into the jar on the table next to the bed.

Meanwhile, Violet continued. ". . . tell you, I . . . I shall bring this to the attention of the board."

"You're doing very well," Dr. Clarkson said, speaking to Mr. Drake, who remained barely conscious.

"Have you no pity?" Violet added lamely.

"Have _you_ none?" Sybil asked her grandmother, her own eyes now wet with tears.

Violet looked at her again, her earlier resolve draining from her.

"Just let him do his job, please," Sybil added quietly.

For several moments, the only sound to be heard was that of the fluid emptying into the jar.

It was the only sound because Mr. Drake's breathing had stopped.

"Adrenaline!" Dr. Clarkson said quietly but firmly. "Quickly, quickly. His heart's stopped."

As quickly as his hands would allow him, Dr. Clarkson detached the pump from the needle and put the syringe with the adrenaline in its place. He pushed the liquid into the chest cavity and with the nurse pressing a dressing against Mr. Drake's chest, pulled the syringe out again.

It took several interminable seconds but John Drake opened his eyes and began to take deep breaths.

Seeing the life come back into his face again, Sybil's eyes spilled over with tears. She took a deep breath herself and turned Mrs. Drake, whose eyes had been tightly shut, toward her husband. Mrs. Drake quickly went to his side and brought his hand to her face, washing it with what were now happy tears.

"Oh, my dear," Mr. Drake said, too weak to do much but look at his wife and breathe.

Sybil wiped her tears quickly and looked in awe between the nurse and Dr. Clarkson. They had saved a life and were now merely standing quietly and stoically aside to allow the patient and his wife time to share in the joy of the moment—joy that their professionalism did not allow them to participate in.

_Could I ever be so calm at such a moment?_

She contemplated that question briefly, then felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Isobel, who gestured with a nod of her head that the couple and Mr. Drake's caretakers should be left to their privacy. Sybil nodded and turned to leave, but as she did so, Mrs. Drake stood up.

"Lady Sybil?"

Sybil looked back at the teary-eyed woman whose domain she had invaded not two hours ago.

"Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts."

Sybil stepped forward and took Mrs. Drake's hands. "Please, Mrs. Drake, let's not forget who did the actual work. Dr. Clarkson and his nurse are to be commended and thanked, not me. I simply brought you to the hospital."

"Well, then, for that, if nothing else, please accept my gratitude."

Sybil smiled, then walked away. When she reached the hospital entryway, Violet and Isobel were staring each other down, but to Sybil's surprise not quarreling.

"Will you put your complaint aside now that he's been saved, granny?" Sybil asked, as meekly as she could. "I know you did not wish him ill, and I recognize that your actions, though in disagreement with mine on this matter, are generally executed in the favor of the patients. If I've suggested anything else previously, I do apologize. But this was the right thing to do. We put the choice to Mrs. Drake and it was her decision to move forward. She may be only a farmer's wife in your eyes, but she deserves to look after the interests of the person she loves."

Violet let out a weary sigh. "When you're quite finished, I'd like us to be on our way. I find myself rather famished now. I couldn't possibly continue this line of argument on an empty stomach."

"Let us hope it's hearty luncheon, then," Isobel said, finally cracking a teasing smile.

"Come along, my dear," Violet said, motioning to Sybil.

"Actually, I think I'll walk back," she replied.

"And is Pratt to be sent back?" Violet asked.

"Oh, no!" Sybil responded. "I'll have him wait to take Mrs. Drake back to Longfield Farm when she is ready."

Violet pursed her lips in disapproval, but before she could speak, Sybil said, "Indulge me just this once, granny!"

"Just this _once_?" Violet asked incredulously. Turning to go, she said to nobody in particular, "I'm going to need a rather large sherry with my pudding."

Sybil snickered, then followed them out.

Several minutes later, having given Pratt his instructions, Sybil sat outside of Dr. Clarkson's office collecting her thoughts. She looked up upon hearing his slowing steps as he approached.

"Lady Sybil, I'd have thought you'd left by now," he said as she stood.

"My grandmother and Mrs. Crawley have gone, but I was wondering if I could have a word?"

Dr. Clarkson nodded and opened the door to his office, stepping aside to let her walk in. Sybil sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk and took a deep breath. Dr. Clarkson sat down, folding his hands in front of him and giving her a small smile.

"I should apologize," Sybil said.

Dr. Clarkson's brow furrowed. "Whatever for?"

"I was the one who brought Mrs. Drake here today. It was my intention to have _her_ convince you to go forward with the procedure on her husband, but you came around and so it wasn't necessary."

Dr. Clarkson let out a long sigh. "You were trying to help. I can appreciate that."

Sybil laughed mirthlessly. "Actually, I'm not sure I was trying to help—I mean, I was . . . but not just her."

"May I ask what you mean?"

"I found it upsetting that you would not budge when Mrs. Crawley offered a treatment for Mr. Drake and rather short-sightedly, I cast judgment on you, not as a doctor, for I know and recognize my deep lack of knowledge on the subject of medicine, but as man, not interested in listening to the voice of a woman."

Sybil paused to give him a chance to respond, but Dr. Clarkson remained silent, so she went on.

"On my way to the Drakes' farm, I was so sure of what I was doing, and then I saw their daughter . . . it occurred to me that as much as I wanted to help, I also just wanted Isobel to be right. I wanted her to be proven right."

"She has been," Dr. Clarkson said quietly, and with a humility that surprised Sybil.

"Mariah is the girl's name. In seeing her, I realized how little I know of the responsibility you take when you offer your services. I believe it was right to ask Mrs. Drake to weigh in on what was best for herself and her family, but in my righteousness, I overlooked the challenge that you face in caring for the people of this village, and once faced with it, I almost faltered in my own pursuit. You look to the health of your patients and to the emotional well-being of their families. I apologize for not taking the difficulty of both tasks into consideration before I acted."

"It comes with the territory, milady. You'll find that achieving that balance will get easier—assuming you want to keep coming here."

"I do!" Sybil said quickly.

Dr. Clarkson smiled at her eagerness.

"That's why I'm leveling with you," Sybil said. "I want to be of help, and I want . . . well, I want to learn from you. Not just about medicine, but about how you do it, that is, perform your duties without allowing your emotions or temper to lead you astray."

"Concern for Mrs. Drake having to face a more gruesome and sudden death for her husband was the reason I balked at the treatment at first—but I was also concerned about the precedent it might set and what would be expected of me, from other patients, regarding new and radical treatments. There was selfishness in that, so you see that this lesson, one you wisely recognize as important, is one we never really finish learning."

Sybil smiled at his honesty, and Dr. Clarkson smiled back. "But if a medical education is your aim," he continued, "I believe you've passed your first test today."

"How is that?"

"In the end, you didn't falter, did you? You brought her here and now her husband will be well."

Sybil smiled and felt proud.

Many decades hence, in the last years of her life, Sybil's mind would begin to fail and many of her memories would be lost in the deep recesses of her mind. But there would be several moments in her life that she would never forget and, indeed, always remember as clearly as the day she had lived them. Looking into Tom's eyes for the first time outside Crawley House. Losing her virginity. Giving birth to each of her children. Casting a vote for the first time.

And she would remember this moment in the offices of Dr. Richard Clarkson in the Downton village hospital. Because it was in this moment that she finally knew what her purpose in life would be.

* * *

Back at the house, in the library, with the business of the estate done with, William stood to go.

"Thank you for your attention to your work, Mason," Robert said, as he, Matthew and Tom also stood.

"Thank _you_ , your lordship," William said, smiling bashfully. "It was a steep learning curve, but I've enjoyed it."

"Don't be silly, Mason," Matthew said with a smile. "You've taught us more than we could have taught you. You're the native son after all."

"Oh, yes," Robert said with a sigh. "I suppose the village is happy to have you on their side this year."

"What do you mean, sir?" William asked.

"The cricket match, of course," Robert answered.

"Oh, I'm not playing for the village," William said. "Doesn't feel quite appropriate. They've plenty of lads anyway, and I only ever played for the house, while I was footman here. "

Robert's face brightened, and Tom immediately laughed, seeing the plan hatching on Robert's face. "I hadn't thought of that!" Robert said. "Surely, then, there will be no objection if you join our team again. You are technically a family employee still—if you want to that is?"

Matthew and Tom looked a bewildered William, who wasn't sure what to say.

"You can say no," Tom said with a smirk that was met with a sharp look from Robert.

"Actually, your lordship, I'd be honored."

"Excellent!" Robert said, sending a smug look in Tom's direction. "We'll have a practice tomorrow afternoon at 3 o'clock, if you can make it."

"I'll do my best, sir."

With another slight bow, William took his leave, and the three men he left behind all sat down again. Tom picked up a newspaper he'd brought in with him and began to read.

"So how's the team coming along?" Matthew asked Robert

"We're still two short," Robert said, "assuming everyone downstairs that's able to play does. Carson will have a report on that today."

"And you're still determined not to play?" Matthew asked, looking over at Tom.

Tom lowered the newspaper with a bit of exasperation. "Even if I wanted to, I _can't_ play. I don't know how."

"Stop twisting his arm," Cora said walking in, having taken some time to rest and refresh herself after returning from her walk with Edith.

"Thank you for the solidarity," Tom said as he, Robert and Matthew stood again to greet her.

Cora smiled, sitting down in the spot Tom had offered to her. "When we were first married, Robert somehow convinced my brother, who was visiting from New York at the time, to take part despite the fact that he had no knowledge of the game and no athletic inclinations whatsoever. It was not pretty."

"He was a good sport," Robert said.

"He was drunk," Cora said with a laugh.

"Whatever gets you through it, I suppose," Tom added.

"Where are the girls?" Robert asked.

"Edith is upstairs taking a rest after our walk. Anna said Mary is out in the gardens. I haven't seen Sybil all morning. I assume she's in her room reading as she does."

Tom looked around the room quickly and realized that neither Robert nor Cora had noticed that Sybil had gone out on her bicycle that morning. It was possible she had returned and was, in fact, in her room as Cora suggested, but he had a feeling that she wasn't. He wondered whether he should have pressed her on her destination when he saw her earlier—not to keep her from whatever it was she was doing, but to help in case her leaving undetected was an intentional step in a grander scheme. He smiled to himself, thinking of the note she'd written him. He'd yet to come up with a worthy and equally saucy reply.

"Are you two staying for luncheon?" Cora asked Matthew and Tom.

"I'd love to, but I have to go into Ripon this afternoon to the partnership and need to return to Crawley House first. In fact, I should get going," Matthew said, standing up.

"And you, Tom?"

"I'd be happy to," he replied. "There's still the matter of the new chauffeur that we need to discuss."

"Right," Robert said. "Any progress on the search?"

"In that case, I'll walk you out, Matthew," Cora said before Tom could answer Robert. "And leave these two to their business."

As Cora and Matthew headed toward the hall, Carson stepped into the library, and Cora and Matthew stopped so the butler could speak.

"Excuse me, your lordship, my lady," he said.

"Yes, Carson," Cora said.

"Alfred saw Mr. Mason out and said Mr. Mason mentioned he'd be playing for the house on Saturday. So assuming your business was done, I thought I might take the opportunity to bring your lordship up to date with the rest of the team."

"Are we in good shape?" Robert asked.

"I reckon that with three family players and seven from downstairs, including Mr. Mason, we're only one short."

"Two short," Robert said curtly. "Mr. Branson won't play."

"Mr. Branson is busy at the moment," Cora said, stepping toward the door again with a smiling Matthew at her heels. Tom rolled his eyes, sat down and opened the newspaper again.

"Is he my lady," Carson said, rather haughtily considering the topic of conversation was in the room. "Might I point out that we're all busy, but we still find time to support the honor of the house."

Cora turned back toward Matthew and rolled her eyes before finally stepping through the door. No longer able to contain his laughter, Matthew merely lifted his hand to wave goodbye and followed her.

"Yes," Robert replied with a sigh, "but that is not the right road to travel, Carson, if we want to remain in her ladyship's good graces."

Tom snickered at Carson's not so subtle rebuke and peered over from behind the newspaper to find two sets of judgmental eyes trained on him. "Oh, gentlemen, am I really such a disappointment to you? I can assure you I'd be rubbish so if I were you, I'd consider the team very lucky not to have me."

"Was there anything else, Carson?" Robert asked, turning back to the butler.

"No, sir," Carson replied, "though I do wonder if Mr. Branson would be at least generous enough to allow Mr. Moseley to play. That would put us closer to a full side, in any case."

Smiling, Tom folded the paper once again and stood. "I'll let him know this afternoon. I'm sure he'll be thrilled at the prospect."

"Very good, sirs," Carson said with a bow and turned to leave.

"Just a moment, Carson," Tom said. "The business of the chauffeur concerns you as well, if you don't mind waiting a moment."

"How is that?" Robert asked.

"Well," Tom said, taking a deep breath. "I've talked it over with Pratt and if you and Carson agree, he's prepared to take Joseph on as an apprentice and believes the boy is rather keen to do it."

"The hall boy?" Carson asked surprised.

"Indeed," Tom said. "It'd be a bit more economical, as far as salary is concerned. Joseph would get a raise in his current wages, but wouldn't begin to earn the full salary of a chauffeur until he's been trained up properly and is fully able to share the responsibilities of the job with Pratt. Naturally, that leaves an absence elsewhere on the staff and shifts the burden of searching for a new employee to Carson's hands. But if you don't mind, Carson, I think this is the best route to take. Matthew is in agreement as well."

Tom looked back and forth between Robert and Carson—in so many ways bookends in the class structure they both revered. They looked at one another and considered what Tom was proposing: To allow a servant, one who had been entrusted to their care as a young boy, to learn a trade that might eventually give him the power to leave the house and move up in the world.

"Well, Carson?" Robert asked finally.

"I shall do as your lordship suggests," Carson said.

Robert smiled. "Given the additional work that Mr. Branson has laid at your feet, I'm inclined to leave the decision in your hands."

Carson sighed. "It isn't just the matter of finding a replacement for Joseph . . . he's been with us for three years, came through the move to Downton Place and return here . . . all that time and training was in preparation for him to become a footman."

"If I may, Carson, how old is Joseph, exactly?" Tom asked.

"He's near sixteen," the butler replied.

"Then, it was likely you were going to have to replace him soon anyway, isn't that right? He can't have stayed a hallboy forever."

"We'd have found him a post, if there was no room for a third footman here, though I would be willing to make that argument to Mr. Crawley."

"But still, he'd depend on this house and the success of other houses like this one for his employment," Tom said. "Working on motors—there's a future in that. It would give him greater freedom, and if his desire is to stay here at Downton and he does the job well, he'd have a job guaranteed long past Pratt's retirement."

Carson sighed.

"If it doesn't suit you, Carson, then by all means, say the word," Robert said. "The run of the house is yours, after all."

Carson smiled at Robert, proud of his employer's confidence in him. Then, he looked over at Tom. Carson understood that Mr. Branson, despite his clear affection for the family, had no patience for their manner of living and merely put up with it for their sake—a fact that he made clear as often as he could, this business with refusing to play cricket being another ploy in that same vein. It bothered Carson that an otherwise promising young man—a young man of his own class—could be allowed to be so cavalier in the face of tradition. And yet, the pragmatist in Carson, the angel on his shoulder that bore a striking resemblance to the housekeeper of the house, reminded him that Mr. Branson was right. A third footman at Downton Abbey would be too much to hope for. Carson wanted the best for Joseph, even if it meant going along with a plan that would take him off the path Carson had envisioned for the boy when his parents had entrusted him to Carson and Mrs. Hughes' care. Carson would do right by his promise to them, and go along with Tom's plan, but not before wrestling a compromise out of Tom first.

"I'll agree to it . . . " Carson said finally.

Tom grinned in response. "Excellent."

". . . . on one condition."

"And what's that, Carson?" Robert asked.

"That Mr. Branson play cricket for the house."

Tom's eyes rolled heavenward and he let out a long laugh. "For God's sake!" Once again, he looked back and forth between the two pairs of expectant eyes and dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. He thought of Sybil, then, and pictured her watching him look the fool on the pitch and teasing him about it mercilessly for all eternity.

With a sigh, he looked up again and finally gave in. "If it means that much to you."

There had been moments when both Robert and Carson had looked more pleased than they did just then. But not too many.

* * *

By the time Sybil made it back to the house, Violet and Isobel had each given their version of the events at the hospital, which, to everyone's surprise, didn't vary all that much. Robert and Cora were, of course, upset that she had left the house without word. But given the happy outcome for the Drakes—and the fact that Dr. Clarkson ended up making the decision to treat Mr. Drake on his own, before Sybil's planned interference had been put into play—they chose to offer no punishment. That determination didn't matter much anyway, considering the fact that Sybil herself chose to forgo sitting down to luncheon with the family, preferring instead to enjoy a long hot bath to clean herself up and reflect on everything that had transpired that morning.

Later that afternoon, when the family had dispersed again, she and Tom met at their secret spot and caught each other up on the decisions they'd taken that day. Tom acknowledged that Sybil's was decidedly more life-changing than his and, naturally, was immensely proud. Once again, he offered whatever help he could in the pursuit of her new ambition. She, in turn, reminded him that she'd sent the note merely to tease him (and Mary) and that he did not actually have to play cricket on her account. And yet, since he had already made the promise, to both Robert and Carson, she was happy to know that she would get to enjoy the sight of him anyway.

All things being fair and equal in their relationship, she rather suggestively asked if there was a particular dress he would enjoy seeing her in on the day of the match.

Sybil was sitting on the grass leaning against the large rock by the bank of the creek. He was laying down on the grass with his head on her lap.

"While I do think you look lovely wearing the very latest fashions, Sybil, I'm afraid there isn't clothing on this earth that could compare with what I see you in when I close my eyes."

Sybil gasped at his suggestion and then, taking her hat from her head, used it to cover her face as she laughed.

Tom sat up and gently pulled the hat away to reveal a bright smile and slightly blushing cheeks.

Sybil looked into his eyes for a long moment and her expression changed. She took a breath and said, "Well, I couldn't possibly show up wearing _nothing_ , even if I wanted to, so you'll have to settle for fine white linen."

This time is was Tom's turn to blush. "I didn't say that to embarrass you, you know," he said quietly, the earlier teasing gone from his voice.

"I know." Sybil bit her lip. "It's not as if women don't have similar thoughts from time to time."

Tom looked at his hands for a few minutes. In their moments alone here in the woods, he sensed an increasing passion and desire in Sybil, and they'd begun to to let their lips wander beyond lips to ears and necks and shoulders. His hands remained faithfully at her waist, but her own had been given the liberty to run down his chest and explore the broadness of his back. Their love had yet to be formalized, and though both knew it would come in time, their bodies seemed more impatient than their minds and hearts. He'd been bold to speak in such a manner to her, but he did so knowing she'd understand his meaning and not take offense. He also wanted to offer the opportunity for a real conversation and hoped she would take it.

He shifted so he was facing her directly, then said, "I know that there are . . . for lack of a better word, _rules_ about . . . certain types of behavior between people who are in love. I would never want you to feel as if I am pressuring you to do anything you'd rather not."

"You're not," Sybil said with a smile. "We have only just kissed, and I dare say that will have to suffice until . . . everything is settled."

Tom let out a short breath of relief, happy that she'd made clear her intentions and wishes so easily. "It will—it does. But, even so, I hope you know that if you wanted to talk openly about, well, _anything_ with me, you could."

Sybil reached out for his hand. "I know, and thank you for saying that. Women are given so little room to be . . . _curious_ , as if we don't feel things the way men do. Which is all rather silly, anyway, when you consider that an ambitious girl can get a hold of a racy book if she's really interested."

Tom laughed. "And you're nothing if not ambitious."

Sybil narrowed her eyes for a moment and considered whether she really wanted to know the answer to the question she was about to ask. She asked it anyway. "Have you ever . . . been with a woman?"

Tom nodded without hesitation. "Just one, but it was several times."

"May I ask who?"

"I fear my answer will test the boundaries of what you may find acceptable, but having promised you my honesty forever and always—"

"Just say it!"

Tom laughed. "She was the wife of a professor of mine at university."

Sybil's eyes went wide. "Heavens!"

"Before you think I came between a man and a woman in a loving marriage, let me assure I didn't. Certainly, I wasn't her first indiscretion. Theirs wasn't a marriage at all, really. It was more of an arrangement of convenience."

"How so?"

"Well, let's just say she liked to have her pick of the young men he taught and so did he."

"Oh . . . OH! My goodness! That's quite . . . something."

Tom smiled. "There was certainly more than poetry to be learned at Trinity College."

"I'll say. Did you love her at all?"

"No."

"But you enjoyed it?"

"It was an experience I won't forget, I'll put it that way."

Sybil smiled. "Thank you for not hiding it from me."

Tom smiled. "Thank you for not thinking less of me."

"How could I, when what I wish is not that we had the same level of experience, but rather that we were judged under the same set of standards. If I'd ever had such an adventure I'd be cast out of society for good."

"If I ever told mam of my indiscretion, she'd certainly not approve, but you're right that women bear the burden of the act far more heavily than men."

"Do you suppose women will be allowed to live so freely as men someday?"

"I don't know, but I'll hope so."

"Me too," Sybil said with a sigh. She leaned in and gave him a small lingering kiss on the lips. It was soft and though not as deep or full of passion and urgency as their kisses sometimes were, it felt more intimate, given the intimacy of their talk and the underlying promise it held.

"I think I should go," Sybil said pulling away. "Who knows what may happen if we stay here and continue on this topic for too much longer."

Tom blushed again, but picked himself up and then gave her his hand to stand. She walked into his arms and they held each other in a tight embrace for several minutes.

"About what I said before, about what I want to do with my life. Do you really think that I can do it?" Sybil asked speaking into his shoulder.

"I know you can," Tom answered.

"Well at least I know the first step—telling them—will be the hardest," she said stepping away.

"Wait until Saturday," Tom said with a laugh. "If the house team wins, then you'll know Robert will be in a happy mood."

"Can I count on you for a victory?" She asked smiling.

Tom took her hand and they began walking back. "I'll do my level best," he said. "I have proper motivation now that I know I'm playing for you."


	38. The Downton Village Cricket Match, 1913

 

Tom rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh after missing yet another ball. Matthew smiled knowing his friend was prone to dislike anything he wasn't good at.

"Is this worth it?" Tom asked as he threw the ball back to Matthew. "I've no time to learn anything. Shouldn't I trust a beginner's luck?"

"Certainly not," Matthew answered. "I want you to profit from my skills so we can make a good showing at our first match."

Matthew tossed the ball back and forth between his hands while Tom got into batting position again.

"Elbow up."

On hearing Robert, Tom stood to see him coming up behind him, dressed for the team practice that was to start in about a quarter of an hour at 3 o'clock. Matthew and Tom had arrived a half-hour early in order for Tom to learn the basics before the rest of the team gathered, but if Matthew and Robert had hoped that a natural talent for the game had lain dormant within Tom, waiting for the right opportunity to make itself known, they were in for disappointment. Having spent all week trying to convince them that, politics aside, he'd be a detriment to the team, Tom was, nevertheless, trying to make a genuine effort on their behalf as well as Sybil's. In fact, he was determined not to be so terrible that he'd be dismissed from participating in the very event he himself had argued so passionately against. But he just wasn't very good.

With Robert watching, Tom set to bat. Matthew bowled, and once again, Tom missed. And despite the fact the annual match brought Robert's competitive nature to a boil, Robert smiled at Tom's futile attempt, seemingly unconcerned about this team member's ability.

Tom looked over at him with a skeptical expression. "I do believe I warned you about what I'd have to offer."

"We don't need you to carry the team. We need an eleventh man and I'm happy to settle for you," Robert said. "Although I do hope your dress improves come Saturday, if not your play."

Tom looked down at his attire. He and Matthew had come to the house straight from their office in Ripon, and therefore were still in their suits, though they'd taken off their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves. Tom had also, and rather unceremoniously, yanked off his tie after the first five minutes out of frustration.

Looking back up to Robert, Tom teased, "And what if I don't own any cricket whites? You won't settle for this?"

"If you don't have whites, I'll take you to the tailor myself," Robert said as he walked over to the net set up behind the wicket and picked up the ball to throw back to Matthew, who was watching their interaction with amusement.

Tom moved to reset himself and said, "You won't make a gentleman of me, you know. You can teach me to fish, to ride, to shoot, but I'll still be an Irish mick in my heart."

"So we should hope," Matthew said with a laugh as he released the ball and for the first time Tom made contact.

"There!" Matthew exclaimed. "See, you're getting the hang of it!"

As Matthew ran off to chase after the ball, Tom looked at Robert again.

"Will you make such a fuss about shooting?" Robert asked.

"I suppose not, but do you really want to put a rifle in my hands?"

"I don't see why not. What difference would it make, anyway, when you do your worst damage with your mouth?"

Tom grinned. "Thank you. That's precisely my aim."

Robert looked at Tom from the side of his eyes and couldn't help but smile.

As Matthew, now with Robert's help, continued to try to make something of Tom's less than stellar play, inside the house, Cora and the girls were in the parlor with Rosamund, who'd arrived that morning and would be staying through the weekend.

"Any interesting news from London?" Cora asked Rosamund as she settled into her chair, having spent most of the early afternoon resting after her train ride.

"There never is this time of year," Rosamund replied. "Although I did have tea with Mrs. Chetwood yesterday. Anthony wrote to her to tell her that he was coming for the cricket match, and she was rather excited at the prospect."

Mary rolled her eyes. "It's really too bad she only had one son. She's so eager to marry people off. I do rather feel for Sir Anthony having to put up with her."

"Would that we could choose our relations, dear," Rosamund answered Mary with a sly wink. "Though in so far as sisters-in-law may do so, she has her heart set on you as one, I'm afraid."

"She must prepare herself for disappointment," Mary said.

Rosamund looked over at Cora with a confused expression. "Must she? I assumed he'd been invited for—"

"Actually, Rosamund," Cora cut in gently, looking over at Edith, who was already blushing, "Sir Anthony and _Edith_ got along quite well when we invited him to dinner and though there is no expectation of anything beyond friendship, we hope he seeks out and enjoys her company again."

A wide-eyed Rosamund looked over at Edith in surprise.

"Does it shock you so that someone would take an interest in me?" Edith asked, a bit defensively.

"Oh, I'm not shocked that he would take an interest in you, my dear. I'm shocked that he or you got up the courage to talk to one another at all. Anthony is a jolly fellow, but rather shy at the end of the day, and you're certainly not known for being a social butterfly yourself. But bully for you if it'll get you a husband."

"Edith only talked to Sir Anthony because was trying to make a point to me," Mary said, and before Edith had a chance to take offense, Mary added, "thankfully for all involved she turned out to be right."

Edith pursed her lips as if biting her tongue, but she could tell from Mary's tone and countenance that Mary was only teasing her and meant no offense.

"Do you know Sir Anthony very well, Aunt Rosamond?" Sybil asked asked.

"He was a favorite of Marmaduke's when he was a young man, had some interest in the banking business and Marmaduke was keen to mentor him, but when his father passed, the reins were handed over to him at Locksley and he never took on a profession. I haven't seen much of him in recent years, but I can't imagine he's changed in any significant ways."

"I didn't know Marmaduke knew Anthony," Cora said.

"Marmaduke knew everyone," Rosamund responded proudly. "He made it his business to know people, and as I said Anthony had expressed interest in taking a profession. Pity about his father, but I suppose some men are only meant to be caretakers of what's been left to them."

"Have you been to Locksley, Aunt Rosamund?" Edith asked.

"Oh, yes," Rosamond said. "It's not so grand as Downton, but a lovely country home in its own right."

Edith was about to ask another question when Carson came into the room. "Pardon me, my lady," he said.

"Yes, Carson," Cora said, looking up to him expectantly.

"The cricket team will be gathering on the lawn shortly for our practice before Sunday's match," Carson said. "In fact, his Lordship and Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson are already there. The footmen and I will be occupied for the next hour or so. If her ladyship needs anything, Mrs. Hughes can have one of the maids take care of it."

"Thank you, Carson," Cora said, with a smile. "I think we are taken care of for the time being and certainly wish the team the best of luck."

Carson gave a slight bow, turned on his heel and left, immediately after which Sybil stood to go as well.

"Where are _you_ going?" Mary asked.

With a sly smile Sybil answered, "Tom's never played cricket before. I'm not going to miss the fun."

Mary rolled her eyes, but Sybil hadn't taken five steps before she stood to follow as well.

Cora smirked and shook her head watching the two of them go. Then, turning back to Rosamund, she said, "If you'll excuse me, I think this will be a good time to talk to Mrs. Patmore about our picnic lunch for Saturday."

Having been left alone with her middle niece, Rosamund looked over at Edith, who was fidgeting with the book that lay on her lap, and smiled knowingly.

"What were you going to ask me, dear?"

Edith looked over to Rosamond abruptly, as if she been surprised by the train of thought that Rosamond had interrupted by speaking again.

"Oh, nothing."

"You can ask me whatever you like," Rosamond said. "It's always best to be prepared for these things."

Edith blushed. "I don't think I could ever be prepared."

"And what could you mean by that?" Rosamund asked.

"Well," Edith said, dragging out the word as if still considering whether she could confide in her aunt. "He's so much older than I am, for one."

"Oh," Rosamond said quietly. "I suppose he's not the youngest colt in the barn, but I would not have thought his age would put _you_ off."

"It doesn't," Edith answered quickly. "At least, I don't think him too old for me or not nice looking enough, if that's what you think I meant."

"So what did you mean?"

"It's just . . . he _is_ older, which means he's so much wiser and more experienced than I am—more cultured, more travelled, more everything! How could someone like that want to have a conversation with me. I barely know anything of the world."

"Well, according to your mother, you sparked his interest once. What makes you think you can't do it again?"

"Mary was right about that," Edith said meekly. "I was more bold than I usually am because I was trying to show her up."

"But, it worked to your favor."

"Yes, but that's not how I usually am. I find the idea of having to always be so forward rather exhausting."

"How else are you to get to know a man if not by talking to him?"

Edith laughed in spite of herself.

"What did you talk about?" Rosamund asked, taking another tack. "More likely it was not the boldness for its own sake, but the subject that enthralled him."

Edith rolled her eyes at herself thinking back on it. "Farming machinery."

Rosamund tilted her head as if in deep thought. "I don't suppose conversations on that subject are enough to sustain a marriage," she said, causing Edith to laugh. "But the key is how the courtship ends, not how it starts."

Edith smiled, grateful for her aunt's encouragement.

Rosamund smiled back. "May I confess something, darling."

Edith narrowed her eyes and nodded, wondering what Rosamund, someone usually so open about her thoughts and opinions, could possibly have to confess to anyone.

"Marmaduke was already thirty-five when I was introduced to him during my first season."

"Really?"

"He was not cheap wine by anyone's standards, but he was of a fairly recent vintage, as mama might say."

Edith smiled and wondered how in love Rosamund had to have been—and how large Marmaduke's bank account—to get Violet to agree to a match with a man who worked for a living.

"I found him terribly charming and _far_ more interesting than any of the young men my age that I encountered after coming out, but he was rather a tough nut to crack. I could tell that he liked me, but he never seemed eager to converse with me for long. I was determined, though, and by that August, he finally spoke with papa about our getting married. I told to him then that I had begun to give up hope he would ever ask and that I feared perhaps he thought me too silly a girl to make a good wife. He responded by saying that his reticence came from believing I might not think _him_ interesting enough."

Rosamond leaned in conspiratorially toward Edith. "I would venture to guess that that is how Sir Anthony feels about you."

Edith had no words, she could only blush and grin and hope that her aunt was right.

* * *

Outside, as the rest of the team began to gather, Tom happily gave over the bat so others could take their turn. Along with Matthew and Tom, the team consisted of Robert, Carson, Pratt, Thomas, Alfred, Joseph, Peter, William and Moseley, who seemed to be bursting at the seams with excitement.

When Tom had revealed to his immediate family the evening before that he would be participating after all, Moseley volunteered himself to initiate Tom as to the rules of play, a task he took quite to heart. Upon arrival at the practice, he set to quizzing Tom about what he had gone over with him at breakfast that morning. Tom was amused by Moseley's enthusiasm and genuinely wondered if knowledge of the game translated to skill on the field.

"You take this rather seriously, don't you, Moseley?"

"I think cricket's like anything else. When you learn it as a child, there's an understanding that's hard to come by later, and with a father like mine, ugh, I was brought up with cricket in my blood."

Tom smiled. "Well, I can certainly understand a love of anything shared with a father."

"Didn't Dr. Crawley play with you and Mr. Matthew?"

At Moseley's question, images of Reginald poring over an old book or atlas with Tom and building model trains with Matthew flooded Tom's mind. After a moment, he answered, "Uncle Reg was more one for cerebral pastimes, I'm afraid, not one for sport, which I suppose is in some measure why I'm not either. Matthew came to love it in his later years at school, but he was past his father's influence by then."

"Well, my dad has loved the village-house match since it began. He was on the first team for the village side. Even in the many years he worked in London, he'd send letters home to see how the village lads had done."

"Given his enthusiasm for it, and yours, I was surprised when you said you hadn't played in the match before. How come?"

"How could I? I didn't work at the house before this year."

"Couldn't you have played for the village?"

"There was never a need for me to play," Moseley said with a shrug. "The village is overrun with young men with talent for the game, which is why the house only rarely wins."

Tom smiled and slapped Moseley on the back, "Well, I can't say _I_ will contribute much, but I daresay Robert will be thankful to have you."

Moseley smiled sheepishly. After a moment, he tilted his head to look behind Tom, causing the latter to turn to see what he was looking at. It was Sybil and Mary, who had just walked out onto the lawn. Tom grinned and waved. Sybil waved back and sat down on the grass, with the obvious intention of staying to watch, which made Tom laugh.

Sybil knew only slightly more of cricket than Tom did. Little of what she would see that afternoon or the following Saturday would make much sense to her, but watching the servants mingle and play around with her father, Matthew and Tom, as if they were friends and not merely employers and employees—it was an image she couldn't help but like. She understood Tom's objections to playing, and supported them, but from her current vantage point, the easy manner in which the classes were mixing seemed almost . . . _democratic_. She wondered if Tom could see it now too and if that would help ease any lingering doubt as to his participation. She resolved, despite her previous indifference to the event, that there was something here to like.

After she made herself comfortable, Sybil looked up and watched Mary as Mary looked across the lawn to the players.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" Sybil asked with a smile.

"I haven't decided if I'm staying," Mary said without looking down. "Cricket bores me terribly, and it's bad enough to have to sit through the whole match on Saturday."

"You can enjoy the view," Sybil said teasingly. 'I certainly intend to."

"I know precisely what _you_ intend," Mary tartly. "I won't deny that cricket clothes are rather becoming, but I prefer a fine set of tails myself. There is no greater view, if you ask me, than the row of young gentlemen lined up to dance at the head of a Mayfair ballroom at the start of the season, a sight you will see soon enough."

Sybil smiled but did not did not respond.

After a moment, Mary let out a sigh and sat down on the grass next to Sybil. As she did, Sybil raised her eyebrows, and Mary said in response, "Only for a little while. I don't suppose papa will allow one of the footmen to step away to bring us chairs now, so I'll consider this skirt a sacrificial lamb to his cause."

"Perhaps that's precisely what the team has needed all this time," Sybil said.

Mary smiled.

"So when will you give me your advice?" Sybil asked quietly.

"Advice about what?" Mary asked.

"The season, what I am to expect, what I am to do."

Mary laughed. "Even I would never presume to tell you how to do anything."

Sybil laughed as well. "Surely you have an opinion on how it _should_ be done. Even if I plan to do it my own way, I'd like to know your opinion. Otherwise all I'll have to go on is what Imogen has told me."

Mary rolled her eyes. "And what, pray tell, is that?"

"That I will lose a shoe, spill wine on a dress and if I'm lucky, I suppose, I will kiss someone."

"I've never lost a shoe or spilled anything—what a ridiculous notion."

Sybil laughed. "And the kissing?" she asked gently after a moment.

"Any is too much in the eyes of most, so it's best not to say anything at all."

"But I'm your sister. Surely, you wouldn't think that I would judge you."

Mary smiled. "I know you wouldn't."

"But you'd rather not say?"

Mary looked at her hands as if weighing her response.

"Would it help if I told you that I've kissed Tom?" Sybil asked, continuing to prod.

Mary raised her eyebrow. "You didn't need to tell me that for me to know it's true."

Sybil laughed and blushed slightly. "It's funny. My feelings are so strong and present in my heart, I have a hard time remembering sometimes that it's still something of a secret. It wouldn't be all bad if our intentions came to be known before we plan to reveal them to mama and papa ourselves, but waiting until I've made my debut, I'll at least avoid them telling me that I didn't do things in the proper order."

"As if there is such a thing when it comes to love," Mary said wistfully.

"Order or propriety?"

"Both." Mary took a deep breath, then added, "Kemal Pamuk is the only man who has kissed me."

Sybil's head whipped toward her sister in surprise, and without word, she took Mary's hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "Patrick never . . .?"

Mary laughed ruefully. "I never let him, not even after we were engaged. I know girls who kissed practically every boy they danced with at their first ball. But it always seemed so childish to me, wanting to partake in a rite of passage into womanhood merely for the sake of doing so. I already felt grown up. I didn't need slobbering boys to prove it."

"Wasn't there ever anyone you _wanted_ to kiss?"

"Just one."

"And who was that?"

"The Duke of Crowborough," Mary said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You never met him. It was two years ago now, during the season. We danced together at the Northbrooks, and after, he pulled me into the conservatory . . . I don't remember what we talked about, only the feeling of my skin tingling. I was so sure he was going to kiss me, and then someone walked by in the hall. Then, the moment was over and we went back to the ballroom."

"What happened after that?" Sybil asked quietly.

"He found out papa lost Downton or simply lost interest in me. God knows."

"Whether a fortune hunter or a fool, he proved himself unworthy of you," Sybil said squeezing Mary's hand again. "Is there anyone you want to kiss now?"

Mary turned to face Sybil, and Sybil laughed at the glare her sister was leveling in her direction.

"All right, I'll stop asking questions," Sybil said, still smiling.

"Thank you," Mary replied. "Besides, it's useless to wish it," she added, looking back across the lawn at Matthew. "He would only ever kiss a woman— _really_ kiss her—if he knew he was going to marry her. I know him at least well enough to know that."

* * *

The practice proved a very successful one, running almost an hour longer than initially planned. (Sybil and Mary had their fill after about half an hour.) At its end, Robert was left feeling more confident than he had been at the start. That evening the family dined all together, and as a gesture of good faith for the effort put in by the staff, they did so informally with the chafing dishes set out on the serving table and everyone serving themselves as was usually done only at breakfast. The maids looked after the family, giving the footmen and Carson a much needed rest—even though Carson accepted the reward rather reluctantly and only relented at Mrs. Hughes' not-so-gentle urging.

The rest of the week went by quickly and when Saturday dawned there were few in the village or the house who woke to thoughts of something other than the match and the related festivities. Matthew woke earlier than usual and after dressing himself to play, decided to walk over to Downton Abbey early and do some work on the books before it was time to head to the village green. As he was leaving before breakfast, he walked down to the kitchen to grab something to eat. When he entered, Moseley and Ivy were finishing their breakfasts while Claire worked on breakfast for the family and a picnic lunch for herself, Moseley, Ivy and Alfred, whom she expected would be eating with them, rather than the Downton Abbey staff after the match.

"Good morning, Mr. Crawley," Ivy said as she and Moseley stood from the table.

"Fine day for cricket wouldn't you say, sir!" Moseley greeted.

Matthew smiled. "Indeed, it is. Please continue eating. I apologize for intruding. I'm walking over to the big house to do some business and thought I'd just grab something on the way out."

Claire quickly took one of the ham sandwiches she'd made for the picnic lunch and an apple and wrapped them in a small cloth. She walked over to Matthew and handed the food to him with a wink.

"Thank you, Mrs. Branson. You always seem to know what I need before I do."

Claire only smiled. "Don't suppose my son's up yet?"

"I could hear him snoring through the door, so I'd say not."

Having finished his meal, Moseley stood and said, "I'll go fetch your laundry sir, excuse me." And with that headed up to Matthew's room.

Looking over at Ivy, who had also finished, Claire said, "All right dear, no dilly dallying this morning. Wash up those dishes, then up to make up the bed."

"Yes, Mrs. Branson," Ivy said, picking up hers and Moseley's dishes and heading over to the adjoining room where the sink was.

Left alone with Matthew, Claire turned to him and asked, "Now be honest, just how foolish is Tommy going to look on that pitch today?"

Her tone was jocular, but Matthew could sense a measure of maternal concern within it as well.

"Considering that he only really learned the game days ago, I'd say it could be worse," Matthew replied.

Claire sighed. "He's never lacking for confidence. I suppose it's good for him to know that he can't excel at everything."

"He'll be fine, and I dare say he will enjoy himself."

"Was the family happy to have him play at least?" Claire asked. "He never said much about their reaction to his change of mind."

"They were—well, Lord Grantham, anyway. I don't think the ladies care too much one way or the other."

"As a girl, I never would have imagined having a son who was on such friendly terms with an English lord," she said, causing Matthew to laugh lightly. "The bits of Irish still left in me find the whole thing a bit odd, but as a mother, it behooves me to be nothing but proud."

Matthew regarded Claire for a long moment. He knew that Tom's Irish pride had been stoked considerably during his days as a student back in Ireland, but the seeds had been planted and nurtured by his mother, whose strength of character had not been mollified by almost a lifetime in service to an English family. Though given her link to the family through Tom, she had never really felt like a mere servant to Matthew.

Eventually, Matthew lifted the food Claire had given him to indicate he was leaving. "I should get going," he said. "Thanks for this."

"I'm proud of you too, Mr. Matthew, I hope you know," Claire said quietly as Matthew took his leave. "You're very much like your father. I think he'd have liked the man you've become."

Matthew looked back at Claire with a soft smile. "Thank you."

As he headed out, Claire's words rang in Matthew's ears. Thoughts of his father stirred him. He remembered his mother telling him that Robert had once offered Reginald a position at Downton hospital, which prompted Matthew to wonder what it might have been like to have grown up in the village. He and Tom would have been young boys at the time and thus would have been introduced and come to know Mary, Edith and Sybil long before the time that romantic notions begin to take hold of young minds. He supposed, given how things had transpired, that not much in their current lives would be very different.

_Well, no, that's not true_ , he thought. _One thing would be very different._

He would not have met and loved Lavinia Swire. Memories of Lavinia still gripped his heart, though time had slackened their hold.

Thinking of her now, Matthew considered how little she had been in his thoughts of late. There had been a time, for many weeks and months after her death, that he could not escape thought of her, nor of the life, now lost, that they would have lived together. Upon his proposal to her, that future had rolled out before him in one long and predictable sequence of events, but upon her death it became a blank once again. Now, with his investment in Downton, the title that awaited him lit a different kind of path. The question of whether he would walk it alone remained open. As he passed the Downton gates and the house loomed ahead of him, Matthew stopped and looked around. All of this was his—or would be eventually—but he still wasn't sure whether he'd ever see himself as anything more than a steward. How could he ever be true master of this domain, after all, without a mistress?

That particular thought, without fail, always led him to think about Mary. The promise that he had made to her about staying in Downton beyond her father's time as earl had been a sincere one offered in earnest friendship. Matthew was too honorable a person to turn her out from a house that more just inheritance laws would have declared rightfully hers, and certainly, if they were to need his support, he'd give the same offer to Edith and Sybil (though he knew the latter, at least, would be married to Tom and long gone from Downton Abbey by the time he was likely to inherit it). And yet, a tiny, unrelenting fiber in his heart knew that in saying those words to Mary there was something more than friendship being offered—something like a proposal, one that he was not ready to make in clearer language and one his heart knew she was not ready to accept.

Not wanting to interrupt the servants' breakfast, Matthew came into the house without knocking, as was his usual custom, and headed directly to the library and the desk where he and Robert kept the estate's ledgers. He sat down to review the current month's expenses, eating his sandwich and apple as he did so. He'd not been there a quarter of an hour when Mary walked into the room.

Not expecting to see him, Mary was momentarily startled.

"I'm sorry for not giving warning I'd be here so early," Matthew said, stepping away from the desk. "I was up early so I thought I'd look to the books."

Mary smiled and came the rest of the way into the room. "You're very meticulous. I don't remember papa ever having your diligence, though I suppose that explains what drove us from the house."

Matthew laughed and dropped his chin down to his chest in embarrassment. "We all have our way of doing things."

"So how are things?" She asked. "I hope Downton has proven a good investment."

"Very good," he said.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask too many questions. It's not really my concern."

"It's your home," Matthew said. "Of course, it's your concern—if you really want to know all about farming yields or accounting, I'm happy to tell you all about it."

"Please, no."

Matthew laughed. He looked back to the desk, then back to her. "I hope I'm not keeping you from something."

"No, I just came to fetch a book," she answered. "Papa is still finishing his breakfast, I suspect he'll be in here before long, so I'll leave you to finish what you were doing."

Mary turned to go, but was stopped by Matthew's words.

"Did you know Robert once invited my father to come work at the village hospital?"

Mary turned again. "I had no idea."

Matthew gestured for her to sit down on the sofa, which they both did.

"I didn't know either, until fairly recently. In fact, my mother only told me just after Robert wrote to tell me I was in line to inherit his title."

"When was the offer made?" Mary asked.

"I don't know exactly. Some time ago, when we were all much younger. Obviously, nothing came of it, but . . . I was thinking this morning of what it might have been like, you and I—all of us—meeting when we were children."

"For starters, you'd know what you are in for today with this match."

Matthew laughed.

Mary thought for a moment. "You'd have met Patrick too."

"Did you always know you would marry him?"

The straightforwardness of the question surprised Mary, but it didn't put her off. It occurred to her, looking at Matthew's earnest eyes now, that he might believe that the match between herself and that particular cousin had been one of love, not convenience. And whether or not that knowledge had been what Matthew was after when he'd asked the question, she realized that she wanted him to know the truth.

"To be honest, Matthew I wasn't sure I was going to marry him even when I agreed to do it."

Matthew's brow crinkled with curiosity.

"Patrick and I were rather alike in some ways. We were both proud and we both felt a sense of duty to the family and to Downton. When we were engaged . . . it wasn't an engagement so much as an agreement to return to this house—it was formalized while we were at Downton Place, you see. We were committing ourselves to the preservation of this house, not to each other."

"So you . . . didn't love him?"

"No . . . well, that's not quite right. I did love him, but in the way you can't help but love someone you've known your whole life. And I never loved him as much as I loved this house. You could say that by choosing to marry him, I was marrying Downton Abbey."

That last was said with a soft laugh, but it caused Matthew to look away.

"And what of his feelings? Did he not love you?" He asked, still not looking directly at her.

"Patrick loved Edith—or rather, he loved the fact that Edith loved _him_. She did so much more earnestly than I ever did."

A silence lingered over them for several minutes, not uncomfortable, but not quite settled either. When he finally turned back to look at her, Mary didn't see judgment in his expression and was grateful. But there was something else in his eyes that concerned her, that begged to be addressed.

"Matthew?"

He looked deep into her, the message still visible on his face—that having agreed once to marry for Downton, she could accept from him that same, loveless offer, if that's what she wanted.

"What?" He said almost in a whisper.

But Robert walked before she had a chance to say anything else.

And Mary couldn't tell Matthew, not at that moment and not for some time, that she wanted more than that from him.

* * *

A few hours later, Mary, Edith and Sybil joined their father, Matthew and the rest of the team on the walk to the village and the pitch, where Tom and Moseley were waiting and where a sizeable crowd was already beginning to gather. Upon seeing Tom, Sybil did her level best to contain her grin. His pants were a bit loose around the waist and hung slightly too long over his ankles, making it more than apparent that he'd merely taken Matthew's clothes rather than buy his own—a fact that Sybil took a bit of delight in.

The footmen and hallboys, with William's help, began setting up the equipment on the house's side of the pavillion, while Carson, Pratt and Robert walked over to the village team captains—Dr. Clarkson and Mr. Thornton, the postmaster—to make their greetings. Tom and Matthew walked the girls over to the tent, which had been set up the day before, and where the family's food had already been laid out.

"When did Mrs. Patmore have time to do all this?" Sybil asked walking to the table at the back of the tent.

"She, Mrs. Hughes and the scullery maids were here early this morning," Edith answered. "Mama mentioned something about it as we were leaving the house."

"And where are they now?" Sybil asked.

"Likely in the village tent," Mary said.

"Aunt Isobel is there now too," Tom said "Mrs. Drake's sister approached her when we arrived and wanted to give a report on Mr. Drake's recovery."

Sybil perked up at this. "Oh! I'd like to say hello and send my regards as well. Will you come with me?" she asked addressing Tom.

Tom looked over at Matthew, who waved him off. "Go ahead, we have a few minutes."

Mary and Edith looked at each other and smiled, knowing that it was a moment alone with Tom as much as anything else that Sybil was after. And indeed, instead of walking in front of the pavilion, she led him on a more circuitous route around behind it, where they weren't exactly alone, but where there were fewer prying eyes likely to watch them.

"Is Mrs. Branson here?" Sybil stopped to ask Tom when they were halfway between the house tent and the village one, and sufficiently isolated to speak naturally.

"She is," he said with a smile. "I'm sure she'd like to see you."

"I'll be sure to say hello to her as well."

They grinned at each other for a moment, until he finally broke their stare and did a turn in front of her, holding his arms out. "So . . . what do you think?"

Sybil laughed at his antics, then stepped forward and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, which were visible over the v-neck of his vest, and pulled the points of the collar slightly apart. He arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"Might as well have our money's worth," she said.

He leaned toward her and whispered. "I really wish I could kiss you right now."

"Imagine what you'll want to do when I show you what _I_ have done," she said as a slight, but wonderfully becoming blush crept over her cheeks.

"I'm afraid to even ask."

Without a word, Sybil turned and continued to walk in the direction of the village tent, but she stopped after only a few steps. She looked around to ensure no eyes but Tom's were on her. Then, she lifted the skirt of her dress up to the back of her knees.

She was wearing no stockings.

Tom's jaw dropped slightly at the sight of her bare, shapely legs, and before he could formulate words to say anything at all, Sybil kicked her right leg up playfully then dropped her skirt once again. With a glance over her shoulder and a "good luck," she kept walking, leaving him standing there in awe not just of her beautiful skin and gorgeous figure but of her moxie and the ease and confidence with which she pushed his buttons.

_Loving Sybil Crawley_ , he thought, _is going to be terribly fun._

* * *

Cora and Rosamond arrived minutes before play started, escorted by Anthony, who had offered to pick them up in his motor. By this point Isobel as well as Violet had joined Edith and Mary in the family's tent. (Sybil was still mingling on the village side.) When Cora, Rosamond and Anthony came in, there were warm greetings all around.

Anthony took a seat next to Violet and conversed with her and Rosamond, who sat on his other side, as the village team took the field, and William and Joseph, the house's opening batsmen prepared for the start of the inning. Sitting next to Mary on the other side of the tent from the man who was purportedly there to court her, Edith was feeling terribly nervous, and therefore didn't particularly mind not having to speak to Anthony right away. After a while, though, he having given no signal that he intended to move from where he was currently, she wondered if he intended to speak with her at all.

Noticing her fidgeting, Mary rolled her eyes and shifted in her chair so she could lean over discretely toward Edith. "I'm not sure if you were expecting something different, but this is how it works," Mary said, her voice only slightly above a whisper.

"What are you talking about?" Edith asked, bristling slightly.

"He'll talk to you eventually. It would be rude if he did not spend time with granny first. It's important that she like him."

"More than me liking him?"

"I'm afraid for us, the pursuit of marriage is not supposed to be a terribly romantic business."

Edith smiled in spite of herself. "Is that why Sybil is so keen to rebel, do you think? Because she wants true romance?"

Mary sighed and looked out toward the action on the field. "Sybil's rebellion has more to do with what she _doesn't_ want, not a house, not a title, not being received in London, nor welcomed at court—in short, nothing of the things that make our lives what they are. You and I are different from her, which is why we have to follow the rules, such as they are."

Edith regarded Mary with wide eyes. The idea that Mary had ever considered the two of them as having anything in common startled Edith. She was aware, as much as Mary was, that Sybil would choose a different path and that Tom Branson had sparked her interest not merely because of who he was, but also because he was the rare person who saw Sybil as she wanted to be seen, as a woman and person of action, passions and principles, certainly not as a mere _lady_. Edith would never judge or resent their youngest sister's choices anymore than Mary would, but Sybil's path was hers and hers alone. It hadn't occurred to Edith until now that that meant she and Mary would be would be left to travel theirs—the one chosen by their parents—together.

"So," Edith said finally, "according to the rules, I am to sit here and wait?"

Mary looked at Edith once again. "I'm afraid so."

Edith sat back in her chair with a sigh and once again turned toward where Anthony and her grandmother were sitting. At that moment, Anthony turned toward her, and their eyes met. He smiled and lifted his shoulders ever so slightly, in an effort to communicate to her that if he could sit somewhere other than where he was sitting he would. It surprised Edith how easily she understood everything he was communicating to her in that look. She smiled back and turned her attention toward the match again, deciding that however long the wait she had to endure would be, it would be worth it.

* * *

Sybil continued to converse with Mrs. Drake's sister long after Isobel had gone back to the family tent. She was in the middle of completing a secretarial correspondence course similar to the one Gwen had done, and upon mentioning it in conversation, Sybil began regaling her with stories of her friend's adventures working for the telephone company in Ripon in the hope they'd serve as motivation.

After that long chat, Sybil moved on, looking around for the Crawley House staff. Eventually, Sybil spotted Claire and Ivy, talking with the village grocer and his wife, and walked in their direction. Since her family had returned from London back in July, Sybil missed her regular teas with Claire, but did not dare continue them lest she draw too much of her parents' attention to the fact that she was spending a significant amount of time with Tom's mother. But she missed their talks dearly.

Isobel was practical and unencumbered, and Sybil admired her enthusiasm for her work at the hospital. But in spite of what Violet might say to the contrary, Isobel was in many other ways still one of Sybil's own. Her life had been slightly different, but not truly _foreign_. Not like Claire's, who after having been widowed at a young age, hopped a ferry alone and against her family's wishes and crossed the sea between her homeland and that of her homeland's oppressor—a short distance in actuality, but far, far larger in figurative terms. She had found a good job and, despite decades in service, had still managed to raise a son and did so without the ardent flame of his Irish forebears ever going out inside him. She was the bravest, most interesting woman Sybil knew.

Claire smiled warmly on seeing Sybil and excused herself from her conversation to say hello, knowing she should be quick and not so familiar as they'd grown to be in the private confines of the Crawley House kitchen.

"Good morning," Sybil said brightly. "I didn't mean to pull you away—"

"It's all right, milady. Mr. and Mrs. Miller see enough of me during the week."

"I hope you've been well. I know I haven't come to visit much recently, but I'll try to come this week. I have some news that I'd like to share."

"Oh?"

"Tom knows, but I had him promise not to tell you."

"Well, I look forward to hearing it."

As she spoke, Claire noticed someone's eyes on her from across the tent, and recognized Cora's maid right away. O'Brien was too far away to have heard them, but Claire knew it would seem highly irregular that she was speaking to Sybil at all. Having been caught, O'Brien didn't bother looking away, so Claire sought to end the conversation quickly.

"I best be getting back to see how Ivy's getting on," Claire said a bit anxiously. "She's rather nervous for young Alfred."

Sybil noticed the change in Claire's demeanor and turned to see who had caught Claire's eye. O'Brien, on meeting Sybil's eyes, finally looked away. Turning back to Claire, Sybil rolled her eyes. "I hope you'll forgive me for speaking ill of anyone, but she's rather a hateful woman."

"You best be going, and if I may say, it might do to tell her ladyship that we've spoken," Claire said with a sigh. "I've no doubt she'll be hearing it from _her_."

"You're probably right."

Sybil smiled once more, then turned to leave. Claire looked for O'Brien once again once Sybil was gone, but didn't spot her anywhere. She tried to convince herself it didn't matter. Sybil's parents weren't likely to be happy about the match regardless of how they learned of it. Claire, on the other hand, had come around to it, and though she knew they'd not always have it easy, she was sure now that Sybil was the girl to make her son happy.

* * *

When Sybil finally left the village side, it was during a break in play. As she walked over to her family, Tom and her father were talking just outside the tent. Or rather Robert was talking, trying to give Tom as many last-minute pointers as he could now that Tom's turn to bat was approaching. Seeing her coming, they both turned to her and smiled.

"How is it going so far?" she asked.

"Haven't you been watching?" Robert asked aghast at the possibility that someone had not been giving the match their full attention.

"I've been saying hello to people," she said.

"Well, Robert and Carson had the good notion to stick me in a part of the field where the ball rarely lands, so you've not missed me do anything but stand around. Unfortunately, batting cannot be avoided."

"Just keep a soft grip on the bat and your eyes focused on the ball," Robert said.

"And remember," Sybil added, her eyes wide and serious, "the honor of the house depends on it."

Robert rolled his eyes, sensing his daughter's sarcasm, but Tom could only laugh.

"I'm the last person to whom the honor of Downton should be entrusted," he said.

"You'll get no argument from me on that," Robert said humorlessly, pulling Tom along by the shoulders to walk back toward the pavilion so they could resume play. Sybil smiled as she watched them go. She knew this moment of contentment between them was a rare one and wouldn't last. She also knew that there would always be some tension in their friendship, not just because of their differing political beliefs, but because of her. She couldn't help that, though, and wouldn't. As much as she recognized that her choices would offend her father deeply, she had no plans on changing course.

Sybil remained standing there, as the players lined up once again and Tom took his position in front of the wicket. As the bowler went into his motion, Sybil brought her hands to her face and covered her eyes as he released the ball. But at the loud crack of the bat making contact, she opened them again and yelled out in delight. The delight was short lived, however, as the ball was caught in the air by one of the fielders, resulting in Tom's quick dismissal. Still, she was happy that he'd not embarrassed himself entirely and clapped for him anyway.

"I suppose that's all right for a first time," Edith said coming up behind her. "Poor Moseley fared far worse."

Sybil laughed. "He's likely just glad it's over for the time being."

"You came back at the right time," Edith said. "I overheard mama talking about sending out a search party."

"I was only just over there," Sybil said with a roll of her eyes.

Edith smiled. "You know how she can be."

"And what about you?" Sybil turned to look over her shoulder to where Anthony was still sitting next to Violet.

"Apparently, I'm at the end of a long line of people he is supposed to spend time with."

Sybil laughed. "Well, that just won't do, will it?"

Sybil turned to walk toward the tent, and Edith called after her, "What are you doing?"

But Sybil didn't answer. Instead, she approached Violet with an innocent smile. "Granny, how about you take a turn about the pitch with me. It's really not good for your health that you sit around all day."

"Oh, are you _my_ nurse now?" Violet said pointedly.

"Come, granny, surely Sir Anthony can spare you for a few minutes."

Anthony laughed nervously, not quite sure how to respond to what Sybil was obviously up to.

"Oh, all right," Violet said, leaning on her cane to stand, and Anthony standing beside her. "But let's stick to this side of the playing field. No one needs that much sun."

Sybil laughed and took Violet's arm. As she led her grandmother away, she turned back toward Anthony and nodded her head slightly in the direction of Edith.

"Subtlety, Sybil, please," Violet said quietly. "The man's not stupid."

Sybil looked back at her grandmother and burst out laughing.

Behind them, Anthony and Edith stood next to each other without saying anything, both grateful for the diversion the action on the field provided.

"I hope you don't think me rude," Anthony said after a couple of minutes.

"Oh, no! I mean, I understand . . . I know how hard it is to disentangle one's self from a conversation with granny."

Anthony only smiled and didn't say anything else.

"Do you play cricket?"

"Oh, not any more," he said with a soft laugh. "In my younger days . . ."

His voice trailed off, and he looked down as if deeply embarrassed.

"What?" Edith asked.

"Nothing," Anthony responded with a sigh. "It's a fine sport."

"Sir Anthony?"

He looked into Edith's wide eyes. "Yes?"

"How old are you—I don't want you to say it aloud, mind. Just think it in your head."

"Umm . . . all right," he said, furrowing his brow, unsure as to where she was leading him.

"Now, I'm going to think of how old I am," Edith said, then closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, she smiled, a sight that stirred his heart in a way his heart hadn't been stirred in many, many years.

"Now, I'd like for us both not to think of how old we are again, not while we're together like this, not ever again. Is that fine by you?"

He grinned. "Very much."

Edith put her attention back on the match and the two stood there in a companionable silence for a long while, a silence that was broken only when Anthony asked Edith if he could drive her home when the match was over. She happily agreed.

* * *

Sybil and Violet were on their way back to the tent when Violet, taking advantage of this small window of time alone with Sybil, broached the subject of her interest in the hospital. Sybil had been waiting for the right time to discuss the matter of her wishes with her family, and decided that telling her grandmother first and away from her parents was actually a good idea. That they were in public was itself a blessing, for Violet would not think of scolding Sybil the way she had before with so many people within hearing. So in spite of their past quarrels on the subject, Sybil welcomed Violet having brought it up.

"Our family does have an important role to play in the hospital," Violet said, "and I don't think it inappropriate that you become involved, but remember that your season is coming and there will be other demands on your time."

"I know, granny," Sybil replied. "I am capable of allocating my time accordingly. I like helping others, and I don't see why I have to choose between that and preparing for coming out. Dress fittings don't have to take all day every day."

"But, my dear, I don't want you to overextend yourself. You need to understand what's expected of you, _and_ what your limits are."

"I like to think I have no limits," Sybil said, smiling as Violet stared her down, lips pursed in rebuke.

"What limit would you put on me, then?"

"You cannot be a nurse, Sybil. It's simply too ludicrous."

Sybil laughed. "I have no plans of becoming a nurse, granny."

"Oh, thank heaven! I was afraid—"

"I'm going to be a doctor."


	39. News from Dublin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps a couple of months forward in time and introduces a new storyline, so it may feel like an abrupt shift. I do eventually fill in the family's reaction to Sybil's desire to be a doctor, the repercussions of that and how it is actually going to happen (remember that Sybil has never gone to school so she has to catch up academically before she can even start). 
> 
> Just a reminder, Tom finished school and attended university in Ireland, so he lived in Dublin, in close proximity to his Irish relatives, for a total of six years in his youth. Claire and Colin Branson grew up together in Galway.

**Early December 1913**

It had been a long day. Claire had spent most of it cleaning out the pantry and cupboard. She had Ivy's help, of course, but when it came to her kitchen, Claire liked having things _just so_ , which meant that in spite of Ivy's well-meaning contributions, Claire usually ended up doing most of the job herself. She never minded. There were few things she took greater pride in than doing her job well.

After Tom had come in to say his goodnights (and catch her up on Sybil's progress in her private studies to prepare herself for the London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women's entrance exam), Claire made herself some tea and sat down in her small sitting room to read the letter she'd received from her sister. She'd noticed, when Moseley had brought it in with the rest of the evening post, that it was much thicker than usual. Aoife Mullen, nee Connelly, was always detailed in her writing, especially when discussing a notable family event. Her account of the birth of her first grandchild several years ago came in a letter of no fewer than seven pages. Claire enjoyed her letters immensely, as they kept her connected to the family and country she had left behind long ago.

Claire opened the envelope and immediately saw that another envelope, also addressed to her but in a handwriting she did not recognize, had been folded up inside her sister's pages. Curiosity almost drove her to open it before seeing to what Aoife had sent, but Claire thought better of it and read her sister's letter first.

* * *

_Dearest Claire,_

_I hope, as always, that this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Thank you ever so much for the photograph you included of Tommy in your most recent correspondence. I marvel at how like his father he looks and at what a successful man he has become. Despite his English childhood, I do believe his years with us here helped to cement his Irish pride and character. Seeing his picture—as well as the events that I will relate to you shortly—called to my mind your wedding to Colin so many years ago now. We were much the same in age as Tommy and my own children are now. What would we tell the silly girls we were about how living life changes you? What should we tell our children when they are so determined to live as they see fit?_

_I'm happy to hear that Tommy continues to do well in his profession and in his help to Mr. Crawley in managing Mr. Crawley's future estate. I thank you, dear Claire, for not sparing detail in explaining Tommy's role, but I must confess that I don't share all that you tell me with the rest of the family or the neighbors. You know well how the English aristocracy are thought of in these parts, and while we all take pride in how well Tommy has done for himself, I don't want to engender any bitterness toward him for his well-earned successes. And bitterness is running rampant here as this lock-out continues to bleed workers dry. Michael did well in saving and has managed to keep his family fed, but I can tell that things are wearing on him._

_Aidan keeps his head down as he continues his studies. Padraig and Damien are another story. They've come back to live in the house, which I am glad for in that it allows me to keep an eye on them, but lack of work has also made them intensely frustrated. Padraig, in particular. He's a good lad—Tommy's good influence did wonders for Padraig's discipline and work ethic. He's quite interested in politics, not just to do with the lockout, but with the Republicans as well. I am happy that he has these interests, but I worry for his safety. Anger has a way of turning into violence that cannot be controlled or predicted—a truth our country already knows too well—and everywhere here you can see how angry these boys are. They are right to be angry, but I can't help but fear for the repercussions. Damien, for one, has sought to calm his own frustrations with the bottle, and I'm sorry to say neither I nor his brothers have found a way of containing him. He chases after girls by day and escapes to the pub by night. I am waiting for the day one of these girls comes to the house with news that she's with child._

_But I don't mean to burden you with my troubles as a mother, dear Claire. We have life and we have one another and we accept these as God's gifts even if he sees fit to give us nothing else. You remember those words from our mam, surely, as well as I do. And anyway, I can only imagine that you want to know about the envelope that I've included with my letter. If I know you well, I know that you will not have opened it yet. So before you read it, I will give you some additional information as to how it came to be in my possession, thanks to a series of coincidences or, perhaps, the grace of God himself._

_Several weeks ago, I had a visit from Mrs. Rosemary Flanagan, whose family, if you remember, were tenants on the farm next to ours back home. She was in Dublin to see her daughter, who happens to be a friend of Michael's wife. Sarah invited them to tea and in conversation, Mrs. Flanagan realized that Sarah was a relation of mine by marriage and immediately asked to see me. It was quite a shock to hear from her and to hear the tale that she had to share. You see, dear sister, some time last year, Mrs. Flanagan had a visit from a young man from Belfast who said he was looking for information about his father, whom he'd never met and of whom he knew little except his name—Colin Branson._

_Mrs. Flanagan told the young man that she knew the name to be that of the son of a local farmhand who'd married the daughter of another tenant on the Delderfield estate and after had gone to Dublin to find work. She remembered that Colin had died young, leaving his widow and son, but with mam's death and our brothers having left the area many years since, Mrs. Flanagan knew of no way to contact you or any of us. Still, the young man left a letter with her addressed to you in the hope that she might hear something in the future. She kept the letter but did not expect to ever deliver it. Upon her return to Galway, she sent it to me. I received it yesterday and now it is in your hands._

_She, of course, like everyone else, did not know that Colin had left home for several years and was married and widowed before returning and marrying you. I confess that I broke the promise I made to you when you shared this truth about him with me on the eve of your wedding and told Mrs. Flanagan, in an effort to contain her judgment against someone I knew to be a good honest man—she had, as you can assume, believed the young man who visited her to be an illegitimate child. Even so, after I told her, she pressed me on whether I knew if Colin had fathered a child before he married you, and I was forced to admit I knew nothing of that. I don't believe you knew either, and I wonder, dear sister, what you are feeling at this moment. Would that the distance between us could be eliminated so that I could offer my support. I did not dare open the fated letter that Mrs. Flanagan put into my hands. I can only hope that it will explain why Colin, having seen it fit to tell you that he had married once before, did not also reveal that he had a child. My fear, which grows even as I write these lines, is that Colin himself was not aware of the child's existence and went to his early grave without the knowledge that he had two sons._

_I will stop writing now, and let you read this young man's words. I give you the support of sisterhood in whatever you decide to do regarding this new knowledge. And as another year nears its close, I hope that the next will bring, if not your permanent return to your homeland, at least a short visit. I do so miss you, Claire, even now decades gone from us._

_Always your loving sister, Aoife_

* * *

With shaking hands, Claire put down the letter her sister had written and picked up the other envelope. It was addressed, "To Mrs. Colin Branson."

She took a deep breath, turned the envelope in her hands to open it and began reading.

* * *

_Esteemed Mrs. Branson,_

_I cannot guess what the bearer of this letter may have told you about who I am, but before I introduce myself, let me express that I hope that my letter has found you well and that its contents prove illuminating rather than alarming. I also hope that this letter will mark the beginning of a long correspondence and perhaps eventually a long friendship. For reasons that will become evident as you read, life has not afforded me many loving relatives and fewer friends, so I hope, perhaps naively, to find one in you._

_My name is Ciaran Harrington, and until a year ago I believed myself to be the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Harrington of Belfast. The woman who raised me—whom I will call Nan, her given name, for the purposes of clarity—confessed to me at her deathbed that she was, in actuality, my aunt. My mother, that is to say the woman who gave birth to me, was her only sister, Bernadette, who was disowned by their parents and who died giving birth to me. The story that this letter relates was pieced together by me from Nan's account and a box of letters she left to me that included Bernadette's correspondence with the man I now know to be my father, Colin Branson, and two letters he wrote to Nan after Bernadette's death. I do not know how much, if any of it, will be familiar to you, but I hope you will agree with me that it reveals Colin Branson to be a caring man who became victim of the prejudices held by my grandparents and my adoptive father, prejudices to which I was an unwitting subject throughout my life._

_Bernadette Cunningham was the youngest of two daughters of a successful middle class merchant. When Bernadette finished school, the family took a cottage in Cork for a month-long holiday on the coast. It was there according to Nan, that Bernadette met Colin. Nan told me he was a native of Galway who had gone to Cork to work in the shipyards. According to Nan, Bernadette was not one for sudden flights of fancy, but she took to Colin quickly. Nan never knew the seriousness with which Colin pursued Bernadette, but on her sister's side, the attachment was a strong one from the start. They met several times during that holiday, and when the family returned to Belfast, Bernadette and Colin began a correspondence that lasted more than a year. His words—I have read them all now many times over—were those of a determined and thoughtful young man with big dreams of a life beyond the poverty into which he was born. Nan told me that from the beginning, she worried that this working class man was trying to take advantage of her sister's superior station and wealth, but I daresay, reading his letters, I do not believe that to be the case._

_In the period of the year during which Bernadette was receiving Colin's letters and writing her own back to him, Nan got engaged to her eventual husband, and although Bernadette was also presented to a number of suitors, she turned them all away. Colin eventually asked Bernadette to marry him. She, in turn, invited him to Belfast to formally ask for her hand and meet her parents, which he did. But upon learning that their daughter intended to marry a poor Catholic rather a well-to-do Protestant as they had wished, they threatened to disown her and cast her away. Bernadette, whom Nan described as proud and stubborn to a fault, defied their parents and left with Colin. They made it back to Cork and married at a civil registry. Nan said that despite her best intentions, Bernadette struggled to adjust to the life of a working-class wife, and ten months into the marriage, returned to Belfast against Colin's wishes, in the hopes of changing her parents' opinion of her and getting them to offer a measure of monetary relief for herself and the child she was expecting to arrive soon. They turned her away, but Nan took her in, over the objections of her own husband. The stress of the situation, according to Nan, caused her to be delivered of the child—myself—prematurely. I was born in August of 1885. My mother did not make it past the night. Nan said it was not the birth that killed her but her broken heart._

_Nan sent word to Colin, and he returned word that he would come to Belfast to fetch me within the week, once he'd made arrangements for my care. But in that time, my grandparents managed to convince Nan to tell Colin that the baby died and to raise me as her own child. Nan believed strongly that it would not have been her sister's wish to separate me from my father, but she was persuaded by the argument that she and her husband would give me a better life than Colin could afford. And so he was told once he arrived that he had lost both his wife and son. He was devastated and did not linger long enough to see through the lie. A few weeks later, Nan received by post a package containing all the letters that Bernadette had sent to Colin and note from him saying that he planned to return home to Galway. His second letter to Nan came almost a year later and explained that after his profound loss, he took solace in the friendship of a girl he'd known since childhood with whom, over time, he had come to fall deeply in love. That girl was you._

_You will know more about that side of the story than I do. And if my account has made you question Colin Branson in anyway, I hope that his own words to Nan in describing your union will put any doubts in you to rest._

"I know now that I did not love darling Benny as she deserved. My affection for her, though sincere, was that of young and naive fool. Such is my shame for what I did that none but my future wife know of it. She who lives in my heart now has accepted my sins and in her love I find the will to move forward."

_Nan told me everything because she felt guilt for the deceit and for the difficult life that I lived at the hands of two men—my father and grandfather—who saw me as a Catholic bastard. She sought my forgiveness and in her final hours, I could do nothing but offer it._

_I share this story with you because my relations with my mother's family have been strained by a lifetime of secrets that I was ignorant of but that were nevertheless held against me all my life. I left Belfast shortly after Nan's death harboring the wish to learn more about the man whom I believe would have been a good father. I cannot deny that hearing of his death has sapped my spirit. But I cling to the hope that this letter will find you and Colin Branson's son, whom I long meet and call my brother. I have included here the name and address of an acquaintance in Dublin, with whom I have resided for the last several months and where I shall return now._

_I don't know whether the bearer of this letter will do anything but toss it into her fire, but I'm faithful that God or whatever fates are in charge of us, will bring us together._

_Sincerely, Ciaran Harrington_

* * *

Claire did not know how many times she read the letter or how many tears she spilled in the act, but at some point late into the night, she found her strength and stood from her chair. She took her candle and walked through the house to Isobel's room, knocking quietly but determinedly when she reached it.

"Good heavens, Mrs. Branson," Isobel whispered, alarmed, upon opening the door. "Whatever could be wrong!?"

Claire's tears began to fall again. "Tom and I must travel to Dublin at once."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: The "lock-out" Aoife mentions in her letter was a major labor dispute in Dublin that lasted months and ended in January 1914.


	40. Tom's Other Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins the day after Claire receives the letter. It's relatively short, but it brings us back to the main action, as it were.

"She fainted?"

Sybil nodded and laughed at the way Gwen's eyes seemed to want to pop out of her head. "She would never admit to it of course," Sybil said, "but granny has always had something of a flair for the dramatic."

"What happened?" Gwen said leaning in eagerly.

"Well, the match was delayed for about a quarter of an hour. She kept saying the word 'doctor,' and everyone assumed that she was asking for one, not merely repeating what I had just said. I must admit I let them assume that until we were back at the house later, which I suppose was a bit unfair to granny. But when the truth finally _was_ out—well, that was when pandemonium truly ensued. Everyone was gasping and yelling by turns. Papa said I was out of my mind, in over my head and that feminine sensibilities were simply too delicate to stand the practice of medicine. He and Tom quarreled rather bitterly over his comments, which makes me a bit sad as they were just starting to get on well again. Since then, papa has said he won't stop me, though I think it's because he's convinced I'll give up or fail. Mama kept going on about the season and what _their majesties_ would think, as if I've ever had to ask the king permission to do anything. Mary and Edith didn't say much in that moment out of sheer shock. They've come around, but I know they think me a bit mad. And in the midst of all of that, with all of papa's yelling, granny fainted _again_."

Years of life in service had taught Gwen to control her reactions when it came to the embarrassments of her betters, but in this instance, the best she could do was put both hands over her mouth to hold in her laughter. It was no use, though, because the laughter came out anyway in the form of tears welling in her eyes.

The two friends were at a small tea shop in Ripon, where they'd met to catch up after months apart. Since Gwen's departure from the house, they had exchanged numerous letters, with Gwen offering copious detail on her adventures as an independent, socially mobile woman. But the two had not taken the time to meet in person despite their relatively close proximity in part because Gwen's new job kept her so busy and in part because Sybil had wanted to give Gwen as much time as she needed and wanted to settle in to her new life.

While Gwen was still a maid at Downton, Sybil never doubted the sincerity of her friendship, but there was always a tiny tickle of worry in the back of Sybil's mind that the obligation of employment that existed between Gwen and the Crawleys tied strings around the friendship. Even now that those strings were gone, Sybil didn't want to continue to be the one of the two who was always imposing on the other. Still, by the time December rolled around, almost six months had gone by and Gwen was eager to see her friend—especially now that that was all she was, a friend. On the first Saturday of the month, then, they agreed to meet for luncheon. It was the first Saturday in some time that Gwen was neither working nor taking a visit from her mother (who despite initial skepticism as to her daughter's new profession was now sincerely proud of how far she had lifted herself and was always eager to see and hear about how it was all going).

For Sybil, an added benefit of having waited this long to see Gwen was having her own news to share. Namely, that she was studying—day and night, it seemed—what her idle aristocratic education had not taught her so she could submit an application for entrance into the the London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women. But before she could even get to how exactly she was preparing Gwen, who was surprised neither by Sybil's goal nor her determined ambition in its pursuit, had to know how Sybil had told her family of her goal and how they had reacted. Gwen knew, after all, that the Crawleys were good, thoughtful people, but she also knew that at least some within the tightly knit unit were rather averse to change. And what constituted more change than the daughter of a peer training to be a doctor?

Sybil told the story from the beginning. She related to Gwen how her experience visiting and volunteering at the hospital with her grandmother and Isobel had inspired her to look first into nursing as a profession and then how Mr. Drake's illness and Dr. Clarkson's initial inclination to allow him to die rather than accept a nurse's recommendation made her wonder whether her temperament would ever allow her to accept anyone—man or woman—overruling her to her patient's detriment. The likes of Sybil Crawley never settle for being second in command.

Sybil told Gwen about the decision itself, about her choice to pursue a dream so grand in scope and about the very many times she had questioned herself since she'd stated it aloud, first to herself and then to Tom, who reminded her over and over that this was within her reach—she would have to work, and harder than she'd ever been expected to, but it was within her reach. He reminded her that there was no harm in failure, only lessons to be learned for the next attempt. His eager encouragement kept her focused whenever she second-guessed herself and wondered whether it was all just too much.

 _You told me once_ , he'd said, _that you wouldn't ask for the moon if you didn't know if you could have the stars, but the beauty of shooting for the moon is that if you miss, you can catch a star on the way down. And you can always shoot again._

The same afternoon that she told Tom, but before telling anyone else in her family, Sybil wrote to her former governess, Miss Elizabeth Perry, who was now with a family in London, to ask for guidance on a course of study. Miss Perry had come to the Crawleys just after Sybil turned 8, after the woman who'd taught Mary and Edith had chosen to retire. She was a bit overqualified and had been prepared to teach her charge a whole host of subjects, only to be told by her employers that she needn't bother with much beyond what Sybil would need to entertain herself, and then entertain others when the time came. Despite what she always considered a short-sighted mandate, in Sybil, Miss Perry always found a thoughtful, if headstrong, student and had suspected that Sybil had a mind and curiosity that would have flourished if allowed to learn lessons beyond the scope of study her parents had set out for her.

Within days of receiving Sybil's letter, Miss Perry responded with a lesson plan as well as recommended texts for mathematics and biology and the promise to consult with a friend who had an interest in chemistry. She also suggested to Sybil that she ask a doctor or nurse she knew for advice on how to best approach the study of medicine and recommendations as to the best books for beginners. Even before she received Miss Perry's letter Sybil had resolved to do just that with both Dr. Clarkson and Isobel. She knew, though, that doing so would mean having to tell her family.

Sybil weighed various ways to broach what she knew would be difficult news for her parents, grandmother and even sisters to take in, but on the day of the cricket match, Violet herself gave Sybil an opening. Sybil took it, having underestimated how prone to public emotional outbursts—and how theatrical—Violet could be.

"And what do Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Matthew think? Gwen asked.

"Isobel's been wonderfully supportive, of course, and she's been helping me learn the basics of the human anatomy—it really is quite fascinating, Gwen! Dr. Crawley was a careful note taker so I have years of his papers all the way back to his school days as a resource. Isobel said she couldn't bring herself to throw any of it away when he died, and is happy now to have reason to go through them all again."

"And Mr. Matthew? I know how he likes to keep the peace with his lordship."

"And papa never makes it easy. Matthew is supportive and has told me as much, but I know from Tom that he's told Isobel on more than one occasion not to make too much of a fuss, particularly at dinner, so as not to make everyone too uncomfortable. I understand why he does it, but honestly, if two people in the world deserve to have their feathers ruffled once in a while, it's granny and papa."

"And what of the test, itself? When will you take it?"

Sybil sighed. "Oh, Gwen, who knows? Both Miss Perry and Isobel guess that it'll be at least one year of study before I'll be ready. Given the volume of information I have to learn, I don't know that ten years will suffice. My goal is to start at the school before I'm twenty, so I've two years to prepare and be accepted."

"Well, I can't speak to the difficulty of the subject since I didn't have that much formal schooling, myself, but Mr. Bromidge always says that it's all in the effort. And I dare say, as a woman, I'd much rather go see a woman doctor than a man. Honestly, if someone like me can become a secretary, I don't know why someone like you couldn't be a doctor."

"Thank you, Gwen, you don't understand what it means to have your support."

"Women have to support each other—that one's from Mrs. Goddard."

"And how are you liking her boarding house?"

"I can't say the rooms are quite so nice as the guest rooms at Downton Abbey, but mine is the nicest I've ever had. All the boarders are either shop girls or secretaries like me. Some are nicer than others, but it is lovely to be around people who are in the same boat, so to speak."

"How wonderful," Sybil said with a wistful sigh. She'd never begrudge the company of her sisters, but the more deeply immersed she became in her studies, the more she looked forward to having a job and career someday, the more unlike them she felt. She loved them dearly, but it was getting harder to tell that they were all cut from the same cloth. "I'm so glad everything's worked out for you, Gwen."

"I couldn't have done it without you, mil—" Gwen stopped short when she saw Sybil's glare then laughed. She felt entirely comfortable calling Sybil by her given name, but it was hard to erase years of training. It was one thing to address her as Sybil in her letters and quite another to call her that to her face.

"I know, I know," Sybil said, rolling her eyes. "Old habits and all that. Just don't let me catch you trying to fix my hair or anything."

"I think her ladyship herself is glad my days of getting you dressed and ready are over."

The two young women burst into a fit of giggles that turned the heads of those sitting around them, none of whom would have guessed that they were anything other than the best of friends.

* * *

It was well past one o'clock when Sybil and Gwen finally parted, promising not to let so much time elapse between meetings again. Gwen had been glad that she'd given herself time to adjust to her new life before seeing her friend again, so they could really meet as friends, with the vestiges of their previous relationship having dissipated completely. Still, on seeing Sybil, Gwen realized just how much she had missed her.

Sybil, for her part, enjoyed seeing how well Gwen was thriving in her new life and was happy to have someone (other than Tom and Isobel) who was unconditionally happy and supportive of the choices she was making with regard to her life and career. Mary and Edith's attitudes about medical school were not so severe as those of her her parents and grandmother, but they still didn't understand.

In the back of the motor on the way home, Sybil was thinking about what she'd left herself to study for that afternoon when she saw a figure walking on the side of the road less than a mile from house. She recognized that it was Tom immediately and called out to Pratt to stop the car.

"Pardon me, milady?" he answered from the front seat.

Sybil was about to ask that they wait for Tom to catch up so they could give him a lift, but she changed her mind as she opened her mouth and instead said, "I know we're very near home, so I think I may step off here and walk the rest of the way."

"But milady—" he said turning around.

"It's so nice out, don't you think? Just let Carson know that I went for a walk. He'll tell mama."

Pratt, who'd come to accept Sybil's impetuousness as part of the young lady's charm, stopped the motor. Sybil opened the door and hopped out before Pratt had a chance to do it for her. Once out, she stood watching the bewildered driver set off again and stayed in her spot until the car was no longer visible beyond Downton's gates.

Tom, who had too much on his mind to notice the scene playing out in front of him, had almost caught up to her by then. Sybil heard him approaching and turned with a big smile only to notice on him an expression of worry and confusion unlike any she'd ever seen.

No bothering with pleasantries she asked, "Oh, Tom, what's wrong?"

Tom looked up to meet Sybil's eyes as if only now noticing that she was in front of him.

"What's happened?" Sybil asked, urgency seeping into her tone. "Are Isobel and Matthew all right? Mrs. Branson?"

The mention of his mother brought him out of his daze. "Yes—I mean, no . . . uh, they're all fine."

Sybil stepped forward and took his hands in hers. "Then, what is it?" She asked quietly.

Tom sighed and closed his eyes. Sybil couldn't help but notice the moisture that seeped out from them. When he opened them again, the eyes that met his soothed slightly his uneasy heart. "It's too long a story for the side of the road and too complicated for a walk. Let's go sit and I'll tell you."

Sybil nodded and, holding on to his hand, led him just past the gates and to the left, down a path that had become familiar and comforting to them, its familiarity offering an unexpected warmth on a December afternoon that felt everything but warm.

As soon as they reached the creek, the outer edges of which had begun to ice over, they stood holding hands and watching its feeble current make its way through patches of mud and ice on the creekbed. Sybil watched Tom for several minutes without saying anything, knowing that he'd share whatever it was that was troubling him in his own time and wanting only for him to feel that she'd be there for him no matter what.

Eventually, Tom let go of Sybil's hand and reached into his jacket pocket. Sybil saw that he pulled out a small letter. He held it in his hands and contemplated it as if it contained all the secrets of the universe. Then, without a word he handed it to Sybil. She turned it over in her hand and passed her fingers over the handwriting on the front of the envelope.

 _To Mrs. Colin Branson_.

"Who is it from?" She asked quietly, looking up at Tom.

He was staring straight ahead. "Just read it."

Sybil carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the pages. As she began to read, she noticed that Tom stepped away and began to pace behind her.

_I cannot guess what the bearer of this letter may have told you about who I am . . ._

_My name is Ciaran Harrington . . ._

_My mother, that is to say the woman who gave birth to me . . ._

_. . . the man I now know to be my father, Colin Branson . . ._

Seeing the name of Tom's father and referenced in such a way, Sybil gasped and turned to Tom, who was still pacing. "Tom!"

"Keep reading," he said quietly, without looking up.

Sybil looked down to the paper, which revealed to her that her hands were shaking, but she read on as quickly as she could.

_Bernadette Cunningham was the youngest of two daughters of a successful middle class merchant . . ._

_Colin eventually asked Bernadette to marry him . . ._

_. . . despite her best intentions, Bernadette struggled to adjust to the life of a working-class wife . . ._

_. . . he took solace in the friendship of a girl he'd known since childhood . . ._

_. . . I cling to the hope that this letter will find you and Colin Branson's son, whom I long meet and call my brother . . ._

Tears were streaming freely down Sybil's face when she finished reading. As carefully as she could, she folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Not bothering to wipe her tears, she turned once again to Tom who, at some point, had stopped his pacing and begun watching her as she read. She saw the tears coming from his eyes and with three paces closed the distance between them and closed her arms around him as he practically collapsed into her arms. Everything that he'd been holding in since he'd seen Sybil on the road, since his mother, eyes red from tears and lack of sleep, had shared the letter with him that morning and had confessed the truth about his father's first marriage, a truth that she thought she'd take to the grave—all of it came out in quiet sobs that he cried into Sybil's shoulder.

Sybil wasn't sure how many minutes passed as she and Tom clung to each other, but eventually, his sobs quieted and his breathing evened. She pulled away slightly to look at his face, cradling it in her hands. He leaned his forehead against hers, as if still needing her support.

"When will you go?" Sybil asked quietly, "I mean, you are going to Dublin, aren't you? You have to try to find him!"

Tom nodded. "Mam wanted to leave this very morning, but Isobel talked her out of it. We'll be off next week and likely won't return until after Christmas. The thing is . . ."

"What?"

Tom took a breath. "This letter, it was written over a year ago. He may not even be in Dublin any more. Sybil, what if I can't find him? What if I can't find my . . . _brother_?"

Sybil wiped a new set of tears with her thumbs. "You can't lose faith, my darling. Not before the journey's even begun. And he wants to be found! He believes God will bring you together and so must you."

Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I wish you could come with us. I don't know how I'll handle it without you."

"I could."

Tom opened his eyes and pulled back, looking at Sybil with a skeptical expression that for a moment made them both laugh through the tears. "Well, I could if I decided to run away, and I am both capable and willing."

Tom smiled and kissed Sybil slightly on the lips. "No," Tom said. "You can't risk your plans getting derailed. Your father is angry enough with me as it is."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Papa is not angry with you. He's angry with me. He's just taking it out on you. It doesn't make him any less insufferable, but there is a difference."

"Why me, do you suppose?"

"I believe he is of the mind that my feminine sensibilities can't handle his fits of pique."

Tom and Sybil both laughed at this. Since Robert had made the comment on the day that the family learned of Sybil's plans to be a doctor about "female sensibilities" being inadequate for the work of a doctor, Tom and Sybil had made something of a joke of the phrase, applying it to a whole manner of ridiculous things—walking in the snow, using the bathroom, reading the newspaper, petting the dog—that were, in fact, perfectly normal and sensible for women to do.

"Well, he sees me as a terrible influence as it is," Tom said.

"If he only knew," Sybil said. She meant only to tease him, but something about what she'd said and about the idea that Robert didn't yet know just how much Tom loved Sybil unsettled Tom.

Tom made a good living, and he knew Sybil to be a serious and sensible young woman who herself hoped to work someday. But despite the very many advantages life had given him but withheld from his father, something about Colin's experience with marrying someone who was not of his own class made Tom wonder whether he and Sybil were really ready for the absolute worst.

"What?" she asked, noticing the slight change in his mood.

Tom gave her a small smile and pulled her in for another hug. The ground was too cold and wet for them to sit down on it, so Tom pulled her over to the large rock and motioned for her to sit down sat down.

"We could share it," she said with a smile.

"I think I'm a bit too restless for sitting right now."

Sybil sat and looked down at her hands for a moment. "I would go, you know. If you asked me to I'd go right now."

Tom smiled. "I know you would. And someday we will but it's not the right time. We'll likely be gone a month. You can't take that much time away from your studies."

"Tom, my entry into medical school won't happen for years yet—"

"And it'll get even further away if you delay."

Sybil sighed. "All right, then, if you insist."

Tom walked around the rock for a while, Sybil content to watch, ready to be whatever he needed.

"Until this morning, I don't think I realized how little I knew about my father," he said finally.

Sybil's expression softened. "It's a lot to take in in one go."

"Mam knew, but never told me—about his having married before, I mean. She didn't know he'd had a child."

"From the sound of it, neither did he."

"When I was little, I used to pretend that he was with me, but . . . somewhere else. Like if I was in the nursery, he was just downstairs with mam. Or if I was at school, he was at work. If I was at the park with mum, he was at the pub. Somewhere around the corner, just beyond my reach but always there."

"Who's to say that he wasn't. The people who leave us . . . well, I don't think they ever really leave us."

Tom smiled, but Sybil could see that it didn't reach his eyes. "I love Matthew and Uncle Reginald, you know."

"I know."

"I'm lucky to have had them."

"You are."

"But sometimes, having a substitute for the thing that's missing just makes you miss the thing all the more." Tom laughed at himself and wiped the tears that had begun to run down his cheeks again.

Sybil stood to walk over to Tom and handed him a small handkerchief she had in her pocket.

Tom laughed lightly as he took it. "For all our talk of feminine sensibilities, we've failed to note that my masculine ones can't handle much of anything."

"I'd say you're doing pretty well, given the circumstances. And look at it this way, now you know you and your father had something in common."

"What's that?" He asked, knowing the answer.

"An affinity for uppity women."

Tom felt a rush of love surge through him. He pulled Sybil into a tight embrace and held her as if she might vanish into thin air if he didn't.

"We can't let that happen to us, Sybil. I don't think my heart could take losing you."

"I'll never give you up and I'll never give up on us," she said into his neck. "I promise."

* * *

That evening, dinner at Downton Abbey was a quiet affair. The family was joined only by Isobel and Matthew. They reported that Tom and his mother had received news from Dublin that would take them from Yorkshire for several weeks including the holidays. Cora expressed some curiosity on the matter, and though Isobel knew that Tom wouldn't have minded her sharing what had happened with the rest of the family, Isobel considered it too delicate a matter to be treated like gossip.

Sybil silently appreciated Isobel and Matthew's respect for the Bransons' privacy. She knew Tom was not likely to want to keep any more secrets about his background from her family. But she didn't particularly care whether her parents knew or not. It wasn't any of their business, and she didn't want Tom to have any reason to continue to feel himself or his family judged by Robert or Cora. Tom, in her eyes, had more than proven himself to her parents. If, when the time came, they still found an objection on any ground, that would speak more to the fault in their attitudes, not his, so far as Sybil was concerned.

Sybil hoped with all her heart that whatever Claire and Tom would find at the other end of the trail that began with Ciaran Harrington's letter was whatever they needed to find. Whether that was closure or greater knowledge of Colin's past or simply a friend.

Still, she'd miss spending Christmas with him.

Back at Crawley House, Tom was still a bit emotionally overwhelmed but feeling more at ease after his afternoon with Sybil. Though he always rued time away from her, he chose to stay home to dine with his mother, Moseley and Ivy, in an effort to be of continued comfort with Claire. The initial shock of the letter had worn off, and having been calmed by her son and Isobel for most of the morning, Claire was in better spirits at dinner than she had been at breakfast. Always one who liked having things out in the open among her staff, she shared the news that had come from the letter with Moseley and Ivy, both of whom were agog at the sudden turns life can take.

"Has your sister tried to contact him?" Moseley asked, after Claire had laid out all the details of her sister's letter and Ciaran's.

"She didn't say," Claire answered. "I doubt it, to be honest. She'd want to leave that to us, I think."

"When are you going to write to him?" Ivy asked.

"Well," Claire said, looking at Tom, "we decided it was best to go see for ourselves."

"You mean, you're going to Ireland?" Moseley asked.

"Just for a few weeks over Christmas," Tom said. "It's been years since we've seen our relatives, and well, I just want to see to the matter myself."

"I can understand that," Moseley said. "What has Mrs. Crawley said?"

"She's fine to let us go for however long we need, though I won't impose on my sister for too long. Her boys are enough of a handful as it is."

"I think we'll be back no later than the start of the new year," Tom said. "But it depends on how it goes. Finding Mr. Harrington likely won't be a matter of days, but weeks."

"Well, you certainly don't have to worry about us while you're gone," Moseley said.

"Thank you, Mr. Moseley, I know you and Ivy are more than capable of keeping the house running. And this will be a chance for you to learn the run of dinner on your own, dear. Be sure to give yourself time and talk with Mrs. Crawley about the menus."

"Oh, I will, Mrs. Branson," Ivy nodded, clearly eager for the opportunity to prove herself.

"It's hard to say what you will find," Moseley said, "but may one ask what you hope to, in your search for Mr. Harrington?"

Tom and Claire looked at one another, and Claire answered for the both of them.

"The same thing he's looking for—our family."


	41. "Life is very odd business."

In the week that followed the arrival of Ciaran Harrington's letter at Crawley House, arrangements were made, there and at Downton Abbey, to account for Tom and Claire's absence during Christmas celebrations. Downstairs at the Abbey, staff were told that over the coming month, the Crawley House residents would be dining at the big house with more frequency (though not always, to give Ivy a try at cooking dinner for Isobel and Matthew on her own). Upstairs, both Cora and Violet suggested having a special dinner for Tom before his departure since he would be away from the family on Christmas Day. It struck Tom as funny that the two women arranged for the dinner as if under the impression that his absence from Downton meant he would be alone on the actual holiday. Whenever he politely reminded them that he'd be celebrating with his Irish relatives—his _real_ family—they'd smile indulgently at him, as if preferring to pretend that they didn't know his true parentage and that those working class relations did not actually exist. Whenever they did this, he would look at Sybil, who, if she happened to be paying attention, would shake her head and roll her eyes.

Sybil, quite unlike her mother and grandmother, was deeply curious about that side of Tom's roots and upbringing and about people that she was already eager to know as her own family. She was witness on an almost daily basis to how similar Tom and Matthew were in manner and personality. But for each similarity, there were many more ways in which they were different—and these differences, Sybil knew, were accounted for in what Tom called the "Irishness" of his nature and the formative years he had spent away from not only the Crawleys and their English ways, but also from Claire.

 _"_ There's a lot more mischief a boy can get up to," he'd said cheekily, "when he doesn't have his mam looking over his shoulder."

When he'd said this, Sybil couldn't help but think of the professor's wife who had initiated Tom into manhood.

The truth about his experience, when Tom first revealed it, had made Sybil blush. And since he'd told her, Sybil had thought about it much more often than she was willing to admit to anyone, including Tom himself. It wasn't just the idea of Tom sharing that level of intimacy with someone that sparked her interest. Sybil was taken by the thought that a woman could be so brazen and cavalier about whom she shared her bed with. A life that far outside the conventions her social class clung to was so thoroughly foreign to Sybil and so contrary to the expectations set upon her that she couldn't help but be curious about it. Entertaining the thought of herself in such a position was, for Sybil, both a bit frightening and oddly thrilling at the same time.

Sybil was also curious as to the woman's heart.

 _Has she ever fallen in love?_ Sybil wondered. _Was she in love with Tom?_

According to the mores by which Sybil had been brought up, there was only one way for a man and a woman to be together. One _correct_ way, anyway. They met. They danced. He sought her father's approval. The proposal would become official. Something would be published in the newspaper. Then, they'd marry. Whether love entered the transaction was often of secondary importance, as had been the case with her parents, who loved each other well enough now but who'd come together in what was at first a loveless union. At least, that much was true so far as her father was concerned, a fact that had always troubled Sybil and that now couldn't help but push her to question what a true marriage was.

 _Who had decided_ , Sybil thought, _that a marriage for money was more correct than a man of unconventional inclinations choosing the companionship of a woman who was willing to give him protection against social ostracism in exchange for a lack of judgment with regard to her own desires?_

As far as Sybil could see, the union in which Tom had played a bit part as temporary lover was held together by more love than at least some of the marriages celebrated among the peerage. Sybil respected her parents' marriage and believed that the love that eventually blossomed between them was real, but nevertheless, it was freeing to realize that theirs was not the only model she had to look to—a realization that made her wish all the more that she could travel to Ireland with Tom, not only for a chance to meet his family and visit a part of the world to which she'd never been, but also to see it through the eyes of someone as keen to step off the beaten path as she. The budding student in Sybil told herself that Tom's absence would leave her with plenty of time and no distractions from her textbooks, but the romantic in her couldn't control her nerves over being away from the one she loved even for a day, let alone several weeks.

On the night of Tom's dinner—also the night before he and Claire would depart—Sybil was so anxious about and preoccupied with how much time she might get to spend with him, that she took longer than usual to get ready, and ended up accepting Anna's help, when Anna came into the room to do Sybil's hair and saw that Sybil was barely in her undergarments.

"I'm all thumbs this evening, I'm afraid," Sybil said, as Anna took over the fastening of her corset.

Anna smiled. "These garments don't make it easy. I sometimes wonder that you manage to dress yourself at all."

"It does take determination."

"And you have that in spades, milady."

"Do you really think so, Anna?"

"Of course, I do."

Sybil sighed. "I've never done anything at all, and I'm so eager to blame not being _allowed_ to do anything that I never take time to ponder whether the real reason is because I haven't the ability."

"You're going to enroll in the women's medical college, aren't you?"

"I'm trying."

"Determinedly so," Anna said stepping back from Sybil. "So which frock shall it be then?" Anna asked walking over to the wardrobe and opening it. "I haven't been laying anything out for you, but if you'd like me to start again—"

"Oh, there's no need for that, Anna, thank you," Sybil said walking over. "I like choose what I wear myself."

Anna smiled knowing that was going to be the answer.

Sybil bit her lip as she ran her hand along the dresses. She wanted to wear something special tonight, but what could she choose that might be recognizable as such to Tom and no one else? At the very back, she saw one that gave her pause. It was the pale blue dress that Sybil had worn on the day the Reginald Crawleys had stepped into Downton Abbey for the first time. It was an old dress by the standards of Edith and Mary, who rarely kept anything more than a season. But Sybil was a touch sentimental when it came to clothing and hated to let dresses that she loved go (a quality that would serve her well later in her life when the need for frugality would underscore her sentimentality).

Sybil wondered if Tom would even notice the dress she had chosen and its significance. She rolled her eyes at herself for a moment.

"It's all rather silly, isn't it? Changing for dinner."

"I don't know, milady," Anna said. "Some would say clothes offer a good opportunity to make an impression."

Sybil smiled thinking of Imogen, whose advice would most certainly be to choose something Tom _would_ notice and pay no mind to what anyone else thought. She immediately knew what she would wear and stepped up to the wardrobe again to pull it out.

Anna grinned as she took it from her hands. "Let's air it out a bit," she said and laid the frock out on the bed. Sybil meanwhile sat down at her vanity so Anna could proceed with her hair—an area that, try as she might, Sybil could not handle, her mane of brown curls always feeling like too much to handle.

"Will you miss Mr. Branson, milady?" Anna asked as she began to take down the bun Sybil's hair had been in all day to rearrange it more ornately for the evening.

Sybil looked up quickly, but saw that Anna, who remained focused on her task, was merely making conversation and not asking a question as pointed as it felt to Sybil.

"His presence always makes for interesting conversation at the dinner table," she responded, finally, as innocuously as she could.

"I wouldn't know about that," Anna said with a smile, "but for Mr. Carson always letting us know about the best of it downstairs—well, the _worst_ of it is what he'd call it."

Sybil laughed. After several seconds of silence, she spoke up again. "Is Mr. Branson very disliked downstairs?" She asked tentatively.

Anna hesitated. "I wouldn't say he's _disliked_. It's just . . . something of an adjustment for the more stubborn ones among us is all."

"What is?"

"His position—that he is who he is and sits where he sits." Anna stopped for a moment after she spoke. "That sounds rather unforgiving, milady, I apologize."

"Not at all," Sybil said. After a beat, she added. "I should be the one to apologize. It's wrong of me to pry."

Anna smiled. "What I mean to say is . . . what Dr. Crawley did for Mr. Branson in adopting him, and what his lordship and her ladyship are doing in respecting Dr. Crawley's wishes that Mr. Branson be treated as a member of the family despite his mother's position is wonderfully generous, and people who are not generous themselves can be suspicious of the generosity they see in others."

"They must all hate you terribly then," Sybil said with a sly smile. "You're the most generous person I know."

"I'm not sure about that," Anna said, "but my mother would appreciate you saying it, anyway."

* * *

As Anna was helping Sybil, down the hall, Robert came into his and Cora's bedroom from his dressing room as O'Brien was finishing up with Cora.

"Was Mrs. Patmore able to get the ingredients for the raspberry tarts?" Cora asked her maid, looking up to see Robert coming in from the reflection in her mirror. "Mrs. Hughes mentioned something about it yesterday, but never confirmed."

"I believe so, milady," O'Brien responded.

"Oh good," Cora said, turning in the mirror to look at her hair. "I know how Tom likes them."

"Is his mother invited tonight, milady?" O'Brien asked with a faux innocence in her tone that set Robert's teeth on edge.

Cora turned toward her with a bewildered expression. "Honestly, O'Brien, what a notion!"

"I only wondered," O'Brien responded, stepping back so Cora could stand. "Since Christmas is always a family affair here, and it's a Christmas dinner of sorts."

"Thank you, O'Brien," Robert said curtly.

"Will that be all milady?"

"Yes, thank you, O'Brien," Cora said standing up from the seat at her vanity.

The lady's maid bowed her head slightly and held back rolling her eyes until she was in the hall. How Cora could so happily welcome Tom into their midst, and in the same breath so haughtily question doing the same for his mother was beyond O'Brien, who'd be happy to see both Bransons relegated to the Crawley House kitchen where, so far as she was concerned, they both belonged.

Back inside the room, Robert spoke up after O'Brien had gone. "You shouldn't let her talk to you like that."

"Never mind O'Brien," Cora said dismissively. "She's suspicious of everyone. According to your mother that makes her a good lady's maid. Anyway, she saw Sybil talking to Mrs. Branson once so she has these silly ideas about us making her part of the family too."

"When would Sybil speak with her? And why?"

Cora thought for a moment. "Was it the cricket match? Oh, I can't remember. Sybil told me herself before O'Brien did. You know how Sybil is. She likes to be friends with everyone. I'm sure Isobel introduced them. You know how _she_ is."

Robert snorted.

"Are you in a mood?" Cora asked. "I just want to have a nice dinner for Tom before he travels."

"I still don't understand why you're making such a fuss," Robert said. "He's not going to war."

"Robert, I really wish you'd put your peevishness aside, at least for tonight."

"Tom is the reason your daughter fancies herself a _student_." That last word came out like spit.

Cora sighed. "It's a phase Robert. She's had an unusually active mind since she was a child. You used to be amused by it."

"That was before this medical nonsense."

"She's bored, and who can blame her," Cora said walking over to the bed, where O'Brien had laid out her gloves. "At her age, I was crossing the sea to escape my own life. You didn't have a problem with _that_."

Robert rolled his eyes. "You were looking for a husband, not a profession, a more appropriate mission, I'd say."

"When preparations begin for her season in a few months, she'll get wrapped up in that, like all girls do, and will put everything else aside."

"Perhaps we should start preparations now."

Cora thought for a moment. "That's not a terrible idea. We could go to London for a few days before Christmas, see the dressmaker to get started on what she'll wear for the presentation. I'm sure the chance to see Imogen Wilkes would please her."

"Good," Robert said, starting to pace the room. "We can all go. Open up the house . . . And let's invite Roger and Anne to dinner while we're there."

"Bellasis?" Cora said, her eyes narrowing.

"You said Sybil might like their son," Robert said, not quite meeting Cora's eyes.

"And you said I was getting ahead of myself," Cora said pointedly.

"Well, you were right. She needs some new friends."

"I'll send the letter tomorrow," Cora said, smiling. "Will that put you in a better mood for tonight?"

Robert sighed. "Yes."

Without another word, Cora took his arm, and husband and wife made their way downstairs.

As they walked down, Cora thought back to July, when she'd made an invitation to the Bellasis family to come to the garden party with the same hope Robert held now. Since then, though, Violet had opened Cora's eyes to the feelings in Sybil that were likely to stand in the way of such a match. The revelation had taken the wind out of Cora's sails, so she'd stopped thinking about it. But Robert's sudden interest seemed as good a reason as any to give things another try.

Cora genuinely cared for Tom Branson, but that affection didn't blind her to the fact that the life he was after and what he would offer Sybil as her husband would be dramatically different from what she hoped Sybil—and her other two daughters—would have. Cora wasn't resolutely opposed to considering that Sybil might want to marry Tom someday, certainly not the way Robert would likely be. But Cora would only bring herself to entertaining such an eventuality if she had exhausted all other avenues, and she had not done that yet.

Only minutes after Cora and Robert made it into the drawing room, they were joined by Violet. Robert filled her in on their plan to go to London for a week before Christmas. When the Bellasis family was mentioned, Violet looked at Cora with raised eyebrows. Violet would have told them both there was no use, but her long life had taught her that children will do as children will do and it was best to let things run their course, even if in the end there was only disappointment.

As Cora and Violet exchanged glances, Isobel, Tom and Matthew were announced by Carson. Tom came in last of the three, looking as smart and dapper as he always did. He flashed Cora and Violet his usual warm smile of greeting, and when Cora looked over at Violet again, the latter was wearing a rather smug knowing look that needed no words to communicate its meaning.

_Good luck._

"We've come bearing gifts," Isobel said, after making her greetings.

"Oh?" Violet said.

"Well, since this is something of a Christmas celebration, I thought it only appropriate," Tom said, sitting down next to her on the small sofa.

"You didn't have to do that, Tom," Cora said with a smile, from the armchair across from them.

Isobel took her seat next to Cora, and Matthew walked over to Robert's spot by the hearth. Tom and Robert had nodded to each other in greeting, but Tom saw quickly that Robert was in no mood to converse, certainly not with him. Tom smiled to himself and wondered whether his vocal support of Sybil's ongoing academic aspirations would mean he'd be forced to sit in the proverbial corner until the next cricket match rolled around and Robert's competitive nature forced him to be more forgiving.

"So are you ready for your travels?" Cora asked, once everyone was settled.

"I think so," Tom said.

"And when shall we expect your return?" Violet asked.

"Not likely until the new year," Tom answered.

"That long?" Cora asked.

"Possibly longer," Tom said, looking at Isobel. He'd not had an opportunity to say much about his reasons for traveling beyond what everyone might have already assumed regarding familial obligation. "I've been given a month's leave at the partnership. We've not set a return date, but I can't lose my job, so we'll have to see."

"Do you have business there?" Robert asked.

Before Tom could answer, Mary and Edith walked in.

"Good evening," Mary said to the gathered party.

"Where is Sybil?" Cora asked.

"She was being unusually slow getting ready and said to go ahead and come down," Edith replied.

"Carson, please tell Mrs. Patmore that we'll be a bit late coming into the dining room," Cora told the butler.

"Very good, my lady," he responded and turned on his heel to deliver the message.

Tom, who had stood when the young ladies walked in, offered his spot on the sofa to Edith and walked over to the hearth to answer Robert's question. "It's not _business_ we have, exactly," he said. "My mother and I received news about my late father recently. We're going to look into it."

"Hasn't he been dead for twenty years?" Violet asked.

"Mama, please," Robert cut in.

"No, it's all right," Tom said. "She's not more surprised than I was."

"Well, I hope it wasn't too unsettling," Violet said. "There's never much good when news comes from beyond the grave."

"Please don't be morbid, granny," Mary said.

"Well, it's true," Violet said. "It's better when the dead stay dead."

Tom laughed in spite of himself. Seeing all eyes on him waiting for an explanation he went on. _No sense in turning this into a secret._ "Well, it's a bit of a long story, but briefly put, my father was married once before he married my mother. His bride died less than a year into their marriage giving birth to a child my father had been told had died as well. We learned that was not, in fact, the case."

"His wife is alive?!" Robert gasped.

"Heavens, Robert!" Violet exclaimed. "Obviously, he means the child . . . don't you?"

"Yes," Tom said. "It turns out, I have a brother." Looking at Matthew, he added, "A _blood_ brother."

"How did he find you?" Mary asked.

"He hasn't yet, I'm afraid. He left a letter with a woman who lived on a farm near the town where my parents grew up. It found it's way to us through a series of coincidences, but it was written some time ago."

"How sad that your father never knew his child!" Cora said. "How was the truth concealed from him?"

"The woman . . . his wife at the time—they lived in Cork, but she went back to Belfast very far along, it seems, and gave birth there. My father wasn't with her when the child was born. Her family didn't like him so they told him both were dead when he arrived."

"Who would ever think of separating a child from his surviving parent?" Edith said.

"Perhaps they thought they were doing what was best for the child," Cora said, turning to Edith. "We shouldn't judge, dear, not when we don't know the circumstances."

"He was poor," Isobel spoke up, a bit more curtly than she'd intended but, as was her nature, reticent to give up the last word to anyone inclined to make excuses for prejudice. "The family in question were not so kind as Cora in withholding their judgment and deemed Colin Branson ill-suited for parenthood merely due to his being of low birth."

"And his faith," Tom added quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"They were Protestants. My father was a Catholic."

A long, not entirely comfortable silence settled over the room. Tom wondered if Isobel had laid bare the facts of the case so that the family would see the gross insensitivity in it and not commit a like sin. He didn't really feel judged by the Crawleys, if for no other reason than the fact that he didn't and would never live by what they or anyone thought. Even so, he worried because he knew it would be different for him and Sybil, once their secret was made known. She might not bear the burden of rejection and snobbery so easily.

 _Where is she?_ He thought.

In an effort to ease the tension, Mary cleared her throat quietly and said, "What in the world is keeping Sybil?"

Violet rolled her eyes. "The last time she was this late—"

"I'm so sorry, everyone," Sybil said, walking in with the same confident smile she'd worn the last time she had donned this particular frock. She didn't bother modeling it this time, but there was no need. They'd all seen her "trousers" before.

Across the room, she looked at Tom with a small smile. He held his breath, rendered speechless by the beauty of her boldness and the memory it stirred of this same sight months ago, an awakening feeling and a meek confession to his mother hours later.

_I'm in love with her._

The words rang in his ears and bounced around in his mind, truer now than when they'd first been uttered aloud.

"I didn't mean to hold things up."

Her gaze didn't linger on Tom long, as Carson came moments later to lead them all to the dining room.

Sybil stepped further into the room even as everyone else was moving to the door to allow her seniors to go first and in the hope that she might share a word or two with Tom before they'd likely land at opposite ends of the table in the dining room.

"That frock certainly makes a statement," Mary said as Sybil came to stand next to her while the rest of the party filed out the door. "I suppose the real question is what are you trying to say?"

"What I'm always trying to say," Sybil said, lifting her nose in the air. "I like to do things the way I like to do things."

"A truth we all know well," Mary responded, moving ahead to walk in step with Matthew.

"She'll be impossible while he's gone," Mary said quietly.

Matthew smiled. "Tom will have much on his mind, but he won't bear the separation any better, I should think."

"Rather a curious turn of events," Mary said. "I must say it would never have occurred to me to imagine that Tom has much family beyond you and Isobel—and his mother, of course—but naturally he would. I don't think of my world as small, but every so often there are reminders that that's precisely what it is. It's hard not to be unsettled by them."

"My world is not so large either. I live in closer proximity to Tom and have my whole life, and I still need reminding that he isn't our very own. When we were young we'd have conversations in which he'd mention his father and he'd be long into a thought before I realized he wasn't talking about our—well, _my_ father. A bit of a narrow view, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd call it generous," Mary said as they came into the dining room and took seats next to one another. "Not everyone would be so keen to share something so precious as a parent with another child." In a softer voice, she added, "Lord knows Edith and I have trouble sharing things of much lesser value."

Matthew let out a soft laugh, and Mary looked down and took a deep breath trying to will herself not to smile as plainly as she wanted to. Mary had little patience for coyness when she saw it in other women, and even less patience when she saw it in men. Matthew was so thoroughly honest with her and without an obvious plan to seek more from her beyond earnest friendship that she was often taken aback by what he was willing to share with her. Her instinct was to be as honest with him in return and what she found herself willing to share with him scared her.

But how could she stop herself when he'd laugh like that and look at her like he wanted to hear everything she could possibly say. Matthew didn't break down Mary's walls. He invited her, politely and disarmingly, to step through them on her own, and she found she quite liked it.

As Mary and Matthew had walked through the hall, Tom, Sybil and Edith walked behind them, with Edith asking Tom questions about his upcoming voyage, questions that rather irritated Sybil, who'd gotten no chance to speak to him alone and only had the feeling of his hand, warm on her back for a brief moment as they stepped through the drawing room door to carry her through dinner.

"You've traveled before Edith," Sybil said. "You know how it goes."

"Not to Ireland," Edith replied.

"Perhaps someday you'll have the chance," Tom said with a smile.

"You could go for your honeymoon," Sybil said airily.

Edith blushed immediately, her mind never too far from thoughts of Anthony Strallan, who'd become a more regular guest at dinner since the cricket match, but had not yet made formal mention of his intentions toward Edith, despite the fact that all knew she was his reason for visiting so frequently.

As Edith walked quickly ahead of Tom and Sybil into the dining room, Tom whispered to Sybil, "You needn't have embarrassed her like that."

"She was taking precious minutes of your time away, when you have so little left," Sybil said.

Tom smiled at the trace of petulance in her tone. "I won't be gone forever."

"Tom, you should know by now how slowly time moves in a house such as this," Sybil said with a sigh. "A month might as well be forever."

With that, she walked around to sit next to her father and Mary, and Tom took his seat between Violet and Isobel.

As if time itself wanted to prove Sybil's point, dinner went by painstakingly slowly. The raspberry tarts were more delicious than usual, but even they couldn't make the seemingly interminable wait for the women to pass through any shorter. By the time they finally left, Tom was practically jumping out of his skin. He made to stand only a handful of minutes later, when Robert asked, "How do you plan on finding him? Your brother?"

"I don't know," Tom said, sitting back down with a sigh. "We have an address, but there's no guarantee he's still there, so it could be a very easy search or very hard. We won't know until we're in Dublin."

Robert took a sip of his whiskey. "A very odd business," he said.

Tom narrowed his eyes wondering what exactly Robert meant. "Life is very odd business."

"Here's hoping it's a short search," Matthew said, lifting his glass, hoping to dispel any tension.

Robert smirked seeing through Matthew's gesture, but lifting his glass nonetheless. " _You_ always make it interesting," he said looking at Tom.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Tom said joining the toast.

He smiled as they all drank, then looked at Robert wondering how much longer he needed to stay without seeming like he was desperate to leave. After several more sips of whiskey, Matthew and Robert began discussing the estate, and Tom saw his chance to make an escape. He practically ran through the hall. Already in the library, Sybil was standing in front of the fiction and poetry. He was there in three steps and without a greeting and too much thought to their being discovered, Sybil all but jumped into his arms for a long kiss.

She sighed longingly as they pulled away.

"You're right," he said still slightly out of breath. "It's going to be a long month."

"Maybe providence will shine on us and you'll find him quickly and come back to me in a week's time."

Tom sighed as he ran his fingers across her cheek. "If only."

Sybil pulled him into another tight hug. She was hopeful that he would find what he was looking for, but despite her words just now, both knew that what lay in front of him would not be easy. When he returned, they'd be one month closer to her debut, when he'd formally ask her parents for the hand she'd already chosen to give him. Even so, as they held each other, neither could shake the feeling that their impending separation was only the start of what life and circumstance would do to push the future they both longed for further away.


	42. A Voyage, and a Truth Not Told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a flashback, but once we're in present day again, we pick up the day after the last chapter ended, and even though we go from Dublin to Downton, the action all takes place that same day.

**August 1899, Outside of Galway, Ireland**

" _What's that smell?"_

_Claire looked down at laughed at the way her 10-year-old son was scrunching up his face and waving off the air around his nose in distaste._

_The two were standing just off a crossroads in farm country as familiar to her as the lines on the palms of her hands and waiting as the dust kicked up by the tires of the lorry that had just dropped them off at that spot minutes ago settled around them._

_It stung Claire a little that a scent so recognizable to her as home was, conversely, so foreign to her Manchester-raised son that he couldn't identify it or find comfort in it like she could—however foul the smell was._

" _Cow pie," she finally answered._

_Tommy's brow furrowed even more. "What kind of pie is made of cow?"_

" _Not one you eat," Claire said, tilting her head and raising her eyebrow._

_Slowly the truth dawned on him. "OH . . . pe-ew!"_

_Claire laughed and watched him turn this way and that, as if trying to spot something in the distance._

" _So where are the cows?" he asked._

_She leaned down so that her forehead was almost touching his and whispered, "Everywhere."_

_Tommy laughed, his curiosity apparently satisfied. Claire took his hand and with the other picked up the suitcase at her feet and began to walk toward the place her sister, Aoife, and her husband kept, not all that far from the plot on which Claire and the rest of the Connelly clan had grown up. As they walked, every so often, Claire and Tom passed a neighbor or farmhand on a bicycle who'd tip his hat and offer a friendly greeting. If they spoke in Irish, Tom would giggle with excitement, and each time Claire would look down at him and wonder how different the boy she loved so much would have turned out if he were growing up here and the fields around them were as familiar a sight to him as they were to her._

_From the English lilt of his accent to his pristine clothing to the softness of his fingers in her hand, Tommy was bound to be something of an oddity to Aoife's boys. Claire hadn't laid eyes on them in several years, but she could easily guess they were rough and tumble the way only a humble farm life can make you._

_The way Tom's own father once had been._

_Claire knew that Tom's life with the Crawleys, good as it was, would separate him from his cousins in ways that would be uncomfortable to acknowledge, especially as they grew older, but it wasn't until she and Tom had docked in their home country, hours ago now, that she realized how far from his Irish roots her little boy had grown._

_He had been plenty excited to make the trip—if nothing else, his father's adventurous spirit had managed to remain alive in him. But Tommy had regarded the bustle of the docks, and later of the third-class cabin that took them from Dublin due west, with a foreigner's eye. He'd just turned three the only other time he'd come back to Ireland with Claire and, therefore, held no memories of this land. He could barely understand the brogue he heard spoken all around them—neither could he understand the Irish language itself, a tongue that had lain dormant in Claire's own mind these many years from disuse._

_And yet, at age 10, Tommy Branson had read every novel in the Crawleys' collection several times over, could name almost every country on the globe that spun on Dr. Crawley's desk, could multiply and divide large quantities in his head in seconds and could recite passages from both the Latin and English translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey on command. In fact, his Latin was so good he'd taken to conversing with their parish priest in that tongue after mass every Sunday, to the man's continual delight. So for Claire, to regret that Tom had not known the joys of childhood in the Irish countryside, would be to regret that he had not known its hardships and its deprivations, the single most significant in his case being, of course, that he'd have missed out on his gentleman's education. And how could she let herself regret that when every day Dr. Crawley would seek her out in the kitchen of the Manchester house to point out some new interesting thing that Tommy had learned._

" _His brain is a veritable sponge, Mrs. Branson, a_ sponge _!"_

_That a man so kind and so well educated thought him so promising made her feel good. She did as much as she could to teach him about where he'd come from, but she'd not let questions about what might have been cloud the pride she felt in regard to where he was going._

_Claire and Tom walked for another mile or so in the warm August afternoon, their feet feeling every step of the many miles traveled over the last two days. She had been starting to wonder whether she remembered these roads as well as she thought, when at the crest of a small hill, the turn into Mullen farm finally came into view. As they got closer, Claire saw three young boys sitting on the fence that lined the small paddock. And no sooner had Claire spotted them, that they boys jumped off, waved, then began running down the lane toward the house._

" _They're here! They're here! They're here!" Claire could hear them yell out, and sure enough, when she and Tom were about 50 yards away from the house, she spotted Aoife stepping out, with the last of her boys holding onto her skirts. It had only been two years since the sisters had seen one another, but Aoife hadn't seen Tommy in near seven and it was for him that her tears fell as each side of this family reunion approached each other. After the sisters shared a long tearful embrace, Aoife kneeled down and took both of Tommy's hands in hers._

" _Well, aren't you quite the little man," she said with a bright smile that dimpled her cheeks in the same way Claire's did. The resemblance warmed him from the inside and made him smile, which prompted Aoife to say, "And a handsome one too!"_

_Prodded silently by his mother, Tom leaned in to hug his aunt and said, "It's nice to see you Aunt Aoife," into her hair._

" _Oh, thank you, my love," she said, squeezing him tightly. "So lovely to see you too."_

_After a minute, they pulled away and she stood, motioning to her own sons, who had watched the scene a bit warily, to step forward. "These are your cousins, Tommy. You've met the three older ones, but I reckon you don't remember them."_

_As the boys hung back, their mother insisted, "Come now and show some manners! I know you're not shy!"_

_When they finally lined up in front of Tom, Aoife made the introductions, "This is Michael, Padraig"—"Mam! Paddy!"—"Oh for heaven's sake, Padraig's the name I gave ya! Anyway,_ Paddy _, Damien, and my baby, Aidan."_

" _I'm not a baby!" the four-year-old cried._

_Aoife looked over at Claire, rolling her eyes in good naturedly, then said, "Lads, this is your cousin, Tommy."_

_Tom stepped forward and held out his hand, but his cousins only looked at each other as if confused to see such formalities in one so close in age to them. Aoife whacked Michael on the head, and he quickly stepped forward and took his cousin's hand._

" _Hiya," Michael said, before moving away so his brothers could greet Tom as well._

" _I bet you'll be best mates in no time," Aoife said with a bright smile after introductions were over._

_The boys all seemed skeptical in that moment, but it didn't take long for Aoife to turn out to be right. Only a bit longer than an hour, in fact._

_About that span of time later, with the sun starting to lean toward the late afternoon horizon, Aoife and Claire sat down in the kitchen to have a spot of tea while Aidan played at their feet and the three older boys took Tom out to the fields where their father was out grazing the sheep to accompany him on his walk back home. The sisters talked of the Mullen family's possible move to Dublin to give the boys a better chance to find more profitable trades than farming. Their turnips had come up rotten the year previous, and they'd fallen behind on rent as a result. Aoife's husband Frank had lost his taste for this life years before but hadn't wanted to upset things too significantly while the farm was safe. Now that they'd been put on notice, Dublin seemed less like a pleasant possibility and more like an inevitability. Claire was in the middle of offering some help to get them started in a house that would give the boys the room they needed, when the patter of feet shuffling from the entryway to the staircase got Aoife's attention._

" _Hold on, sister dear, when they try to come in all quiet like that, it usually means trouble."_

_Sure enough as the women came out of the kitchen, they could hear the boys sh-ing each other and whispering._

" _Let's just sneak him to the tub—"_

" _No, we've got to clean him in the barn—"_

" _But mam will see—"_

" _You bet mam will see!" Aoife said loudly, making her presence known. "And what precisely have you done this time?"_

_Michael, Paddy and Damien looked at one another, trying desperately to seem as innocent as possible._

" _Well?" Aoife questioned, crossing her arms._

" _It's no big thing, mam," Michael started. "We were on our way to see da like we said, it's just . . ."_

" _It's just what?"_

" _Where's Tommy?" Claire asked, cutting Aoife off as she noticed for the first time that her son was missing._

_Michael and Paddy looked at one another again, and Paddy answered. "It's like Michael said. We were on our way to see da, but then Sean Boyle was by on his bike and he said he was going fishing down at the pond, and so we thought we show Tommy the pond 'cause he said he'd never been fishing in Manchester, but then we saw Mr. Murray, who got stuck in the mud trying to drive his horse and cart through the pasture again even though da keeps telling him not to and then he asked us for a push, and then—"_

" _Oh, child, upon my word, where have you left your cousin?" Aoife said._

_With a sigh, Paddy walked back through the door out to the yard, where Tom was standing in his traveling suit so thoroughly covered in mud up to his hair that he would have been barely visible in the dimming light of the late day, had it not been for the flash of his white teeth in the ear-to-ear grin he was wearing._

_He was as happy as Claire had ever seen him._

* * *

**December 1913, On the Irish Sea en route to Dublin**

"Are you all right? You've been quieter than usual."

Claire looked over to her son and smiled. The chilly December air whipped around them as they leaned against the ferry's railing on the port bow. The main deck was almost empty, with most of the travelers choosing to avoid the cold and staying inside the small cabin at the back of the vessel, but Tom and Claire liked watching the waves of the Irish Sea crash against the boat as it made its way across the water.

"It feels different this time," Claire said after a long moment of reflection.

Tom looked down. "It does for me too—and not just for the most obvious reason."

Claire smiled. "Which is the obvious reason? The search for a brother you didn't know you had until days ago, or the fact that you've had to leave your sweetheart behind?"

Tom chuckled. "I'm glad nobody else can read me so easily as you do."

"I'd say Lady Sybil has your number too."

"She understands me very well, there's no denying that," Tom said, his cheeks too pink from the wind for the blush he felt creep over his face to be noticeable. "Still, she can't guess precisely what I'm thinking—not yet, anyway."

"That's the curse of being your mother, I suppose," Claire answered.

Tom laughed again. After a moment, his expression got serious again. "What do you think it would've been like, if he . . . Ciaran—I mean, Mr. Harrington—" Tom stopped short and laughed at himself. " I don't really know what to call him. What are you supposed to call a brother you never met? Anyway . . . what do you think it would have been like if he had grown up with us?"

"I've been asking myself that question since I read his letter," Claire said. "I can't really say for certain. Lord knows it was hard enough losing Colin with just you to care for. On my own, with two boys to feed?" Claire sighed, remembering Ciaran's words about his unforgiving upbringing in the hands of people who hadn't really wanted him. "I'm sorry that his life has been so difficult," she continued. "But I don't know that with us it would've been much easier—a different kind of hardship than he knew but still hard. So many things would have been different."

Tom watched his mother, a panoply of emotions shining in her eyes, first as she spoke, and then as she looked over the restless sea in silence. It occurred to him in that moment that he didn't consider how hard things might have been for her in the immediate aftermath of his father's death. He'd taken it for granted that her family had nurtured her through the loss so well that she found renewed strength not only to go forward but to take a chance on her own in England. But how could he know what she'd gone through and what it took to move forward not just without her husband but without the promise of more children. All of her hopes rested in him, and for him she'd forsaken her home country. Had he done enough to honor such sacrifice?

Feeling his eyes on her, Claire turned to look at him again. "Maybe you'd have been happier with a brother."

Tom took her hand. "I _have_ a brother. I have so much thanks to you—I hope in your sorrow for Mr. Harrington you don't feel like you've shortchanged me in any way because you haven't, mam. No life is fuller than mine. I only hope the same is true for you, even if the things that fill it aren't what you might have wished for in the past."

"You make my life full. The loss I feel for not having had this poor lad with us all this time is on dear Colin's behalf, not my own." She looked down and smiled. "The day you were born . . . he never said it to me in so many words, but I knew that he blamed himself for what happened to the young lady. He made a measure of peace with himself—enough to go on with life and with me, but I could see that it weighed on him sometimes. At least, it did until the day you came." Claire ran her hand along Tom's cheek. "You made him _so_ happy, Fatherhood was the greatest joy of his life, short as that life was, and I'm sorry—and angry—that those people took years of fatherhood away from him."

"It's funny," Tom said. "I know so much about him from what you've told me. and yet part of me has to admit that deep down one of the reasons I want to find Ciaran Harrington is that I want to read da's letters. I want to read the things that he said—even if none of it was to you or me or about life as we know it."

Claire turned back toward the sea again and took a deep breath willing herself to feel confidence. "We'll find him. I know we will." She smiled to herself, then added, "He would have liked her."

"What?"

"Your father," she replied, "he would have liked Lady Sybil very much."

* * *

**Later that day, outside of Locksley Park**

Cora smiled as she watched Edith fidget with the tips of her gloves.

They, along with Mary, were in the motor, on their way to Locksley for tea with Mrs. Chetwood, who was in town to spend some time with her brother before she and her husband headed south to Brighton to visit their son for the holidays. Edith knew this meeting was important, but she couldn't, for the life of her, keep her nerves in check. She hadn't been around Mrs. Chetwood since the garden party, nor since Anthony had focused his attentions on her. All Edith could remember of the woman was how eagerly she had pushed Anthony toward Mary. It was clear now to everyone in the Crawley family which of the Crawley daughters Anthony had set his sights on, but his own sister remained ignorant of his preference.

When he had mentioned to the family weeks earlier that his sister would be visiting in December, he also revealed, privately to Edith, that he'd neglected to tell Mrs. Chetwood that he and Edith had been spending time together. He'd held back, at least in part, out of a desire not to be bothered with her meddling, and he promised to rectify the matter in due course. But in Edith's mind, no matter how gentle Anthony's manner was in telling her, his silence also had to do with the fact that Delilah likely wouldn't be happy with her brother's choice. Edith had come to learn how much the opinion of his sister meant to him and she could only guess at how difficult she would be to convince that Edith would make as good a wife as Mrs. Chetwood seemed to have convinced herself that Mary would be.

Mary, for her part, was no more eager to see the woman than Edith was, a fact that she had reiterated to her mother several times that day and again in the motor on the way there.

"I still don't see why I had to come along," Mary said with a sigh.

Cora rolled her eyes. "Mary, she invited all of us. It wouldn't be appropriate for only Edith to come."

"Sybil didn't have to come," Mary answered.

"I didn't want to bother her with it," Cora said.

"You didn't want to bother yourself with having to convince her to take her nose out of her books, you mean," Mary replied. "Not when you also have to convince her to go to London next week."

"How do you know about that?" Cora asked, in surprise.

"Granny mentioned it last night," Edith answered.

Cora sighed. "Would it kill your grandmother to allow me to do things in my own time?"

Edith snickered. "I dare say, if you asked her, the answer would be yes."

Cora smiled, glad to see that the topic had at least taken Edith out of her own head a bit. "Well, now you know. We want to go to London for a few days. Sybil needs to begin to get things in order for June, and your father thought it would be nice to open up the house."

"Will Matthew and Isobel come?" Edith asked, looking at Mary out of the side of her eyes. Mary had no reaction to the mention of Matthew's name, but Edith didn't need to see a reaction to know that Mary was interested in Cora's answer.

"I hadn't thought to mention it to them," Cora said. "But it might be nice."

"It's too bad Tom will miss it," Mary said.

"Well, he has his hands full doesn't he," Cora replied. "Oh, we're here!"

Mary wondered if there was something to the seemingly clipped way her mother had spoken just now about Tom, but shook away the thought.

Meanwhile, Edith, who had been sitting with her back to Pratt and facing her sister and mother, turned to see the house. It was smaller than Downton, but a lovely sight nonetheless. Edith's eyes remained fixed on the façade, until she spotted a woman's figure stepping out to greet the motor. And just like that her nerves returned.

"Welcome, welcome, dear ladies!" Mrs. Chetwood said with a warm smile as Sir Anthony's footman opened the door to the motor so the Crawley women could file out.

"Hello, Mrs. Chetwood," said Cora, the first out of the car. "How good it is to see you again. I hope it was a nice autumn in London."

"Oh, likewise, my dear Lady Grantham, and it's always lovely in London after the madness of summer has passed." Turning to the young women, she said, "Hello, Lady Edith—and Lady Mary, how beautiful you look today. But then don't you always! Oh, you do have a lovely daughter, Lady Grantham. I'm sure she is the belle every season."

"You are too generous with your compliments, Mrs. Chetwood," Mary said a bit stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the woman's fawning. Mary looked at Edith momentarily and saw that Edith was looking down, a furious blush in her cheeks, as if she wanted the ground to swallow her. Mary wasn't sure what to make of that since Mrs. Chetwood had barely looked at Edith. Mary wondered for a moment if Edith's embarrassment had more to do with Mary than Sir Anthony's sister—if Edith still thought herself in competition with Mary and still failing to measure up.

"Shall we go inside, ladies?" Mrs. Chetwood asked, guiding them toward the door.

As they walked in, Mary leaned over to Edith and whispered, "For heaven's sake, _she_ is not the one whose attention matters."

Edith rolled her eyes at Mary's reprimand, but did not respond. In fact, Edith was not jealous, certainly not of the way Mrs. Chetwood was flattering Mary. What had upset her was what the attention had revealed. Specifically, that Mrs. Chetwood still believed Anthony was courting Mary, not Edith. Anthony had not told his sister yet of his true intentions, and Edith, sensitive as she was, couldn't help but feel slighted.

"Are we to be joined by Sir Anthony?" Cora asked after they were all inside and the footman had taken their coats.

"Oh, no," Mrs. Chetwood replied. "I've sent him away so it could be just us girls."

The quartet of women proceeded to the Locksley parlor, where Sir Anthony's butler had tea set up.

"This is a wonderful house," Cora said.

"It was a fine place to grow up, to be sure," Mrs. Chetwood said. "Though a woman's touch in its running has been absent far too long."

"I think Sir Anthony has done well," Cora said with a smile. "And I imagine he is only too happy to take your advice."

Mrs. Chetwood laughed. "He has always spoiled me in that way, but a sister can't get her way forever."

Edith looked around the room. Then, she looked back at Mrs. Chetwood, who again was looking at Mary as she spoke. Edith wondered whether what Mrs. Chetwood had said would prove true—or if she would manage to get her way in the matter of Anthony's heart after all.

The women took their tea and biscuits and sat down. They chatted away the afternoon about no topic in particular, Cora and Mrs. Chetwood dominating the conversation throughout.

An hour or so later, Sir Anthony returned from wherever it was his sister had sent him off to. And he had barely had a chance to greet the guests properly when his sister suggested that he take Lady Mary on a tour of the house. If Mrs. Chetwood's ignorance of Anthony's true intentions had somehow escaped Cora to that point, Mrs. Chetwood's pointed suggestion made the fact thoroughly obvious. An awkwardness fell over the room as four of those gathered became fully aware that they all knew something the gathering's presumed hostess did not.

Finally, Anthony said, "Dear Delilah, I wish you wouldn't put me on the spot in such a way, and anyway, I sincerely doubt Lady Mary has much interest in seeing any more of this house that you have shown her."

"Don't be silly, Anthony, I'm sure she'd be delighted."

"I couldn't bring myself to impose on Sir Anthony," Mary said, hoping she did not sound as irritated as she felt.

Cora looked back-and-forth between Anthony, who wore his embarrassment rather plainly on his face and posture, and Mrs. Chetwood. Cora had been so certain up to that point of Anthony's interest in Edith that she was puzzled as to how it could be that his own sister was unaware. She considered pointing out, as politely as she could, the discrepancy in Anthony's behavior, but she thought better of it and, instead, resolved to remove both girls from the situation that was made more uncomfortable every second Mrs. Chetwood didn't know what the rest of them did.

"Mrs. Chetwood, Sir Anthony, it was so kind of you to invite us over," Cora said, "but we really should be going. We should give ourselves time to rest after this outing before dinner tonight. You still plan on joining us, don't you?"

"I am sorry to see you go so soon," Mrs. Chetwood said. "But we'll see you again shortly as we do both plan on coming. Anthony has talked of nothing else since I arrived—how very keen he always is to spend time with our good friends the Crawleys."

Anthony hazarded a glance at Edith, who was, in fact, looking back at him. She saw in his expression something telling her that this particular comment of Mrs. Chetwood's—that he'd come to treasure the time spent at Downton—was true. He hoped that Edith would also understand in his looking at her now that she, not anyone or anything else, remained the reason for that, even if he hadn't uttered the words aloud to his sister.

Edith managed a small smile in acknowledgment, but still felt slighted by him. _Why should liking me be so hard a thing to admit?_

Edith didn't know the bond between a brother and sister, and although she understood the desire to please those she loved most, her continual failures on that front had led her to stop bothering. Anthony, on the other, had only rarely disappointed his sister and took pride in her concern for him. Having been married only six short years before his wife passed without bearing any children, and having likewise lost his parents early in his adulthood, Delilah alone was Anthony's family. Wanting to please her was an old habit and, for the most part, a benign one. At least, his good intentions in Delilah's regard had never steered him awry until now.

* * *

Later, back at Downton Abbey, when early evening began to set in, a note arrived from Locksley, excusing Mrs. Chetwood and Anthony from dinner because Mrs. Chetwood was suddenly not feeling well.

After reading the note, Cora went upstairs to Edith's room, where Edith had retreated upon their return from Locksley, to let her know. Cora knew that her daughter's self-belief wasn't ever particularly high, so in an effort to assure her, Cora sought to express to Edith that if Edith had been thrown by the situation, she wasn't alone.

After reading the note aloud, Cora said, "I wonder what happened."

She hadn't been expecting Edith to offer an answer, but Edith did: "He told her."

Neither mother nor daughter was really sure what to make of that or how to feel.

Having once assumed Edith would likely live the life of an old maid, Cora felt angry that the prospect of a happy marriage for her daughter had been dangled in front of her, only to be dashed way again. She was so quick to assume that this was the end of Sir Anthony's interest in Edith—indeed, that his interest in Edith was of such insignificance that he wouldn't dare go against his sister's wishes in pursuit of it—that she was immediately indignant her daughter's behalf.

Cora did not recognize in her reaction her old assumptions about an indifferent future for Edith rearing their ugly head again. But they had. A mother not so prone to believing that her daughter would be single for the whole of her life would have laughed off the turn of events at Locksley as a misunderstanding and assured Edith of his attachment, it having been so obvious up to that point. Instead, though, Cora told her daughter that if this was how the chips would fall, it was probably all for the best. Unsurprisingly, Edith found little comfort in her mother's words.

She didn't assume that the note spelled out the end of Anthony's interest in her. Instead, she was now wondering if perhaps he had never liked her at all, if his visits to the abbey, the quiet conversations in the drawing room and the lovely drive they took together after the cricket match months before had all been cruel tricks of her imagination.

The sound of the gong sent Cora out of the room believing that Edith was no worse for the wear. Given how quickly Cora had written off Anthony, Edith could only assume the rest of the family would just as quickly forget that there had ever been anyone who'd sought out her company. But despite what they would all resolve, Edith did not yet want to give up hope. She didn't know what that meant, or what she would do about it. She only knew that if she thought too much, she'd convince herself that none of it had ever happened and that her mother was right about the kind of life she was meant to lead.

Wanting to get away from those thoughts, then, she decided to go to Sybil's room to get dressed. She hoped that one question about her studies would get Sybil talking and, in turn, get her own mind off of the idea of giving up.

But as soon as Edith had stepped into her younger sister's room, Sybil stood from her desk and herself professed a desire to think and talk about something other than what she had been studying all afternoon, and before Edith could steer things in a different direction, Sybil quickly asked her how tea at Anthony's had gone.

"As you'd expect," Edith answered, sitting down on Sybil's bed with a defeated sigh.

Sybil immediately noticed the sad tone of her sister's voice. "What would I expect?"

Edith smiled sadly. "Well, not _you_ perhaps, because you are too kind. Most people. What happened was what most people would expect. Mary is the one everyone blushes over, and I am only there to boost the numbers."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. Sir Anthony likes _you_. Everybody knows that."

"Apparently, not his sister," Edith said.

"That old busybody? What does she matter?"

"She matters more than me," Edith said quietly. "To Anthony, anyway. He's never told her anything about me."

"Perhaps he was waiting for the right opportunity," Sybil said gently, sitting next to Edith on the bed.

"What better opportunity could there be than her arrival this week?" Edith replied, unable to hold back the irritation welling in her.

"Did you talk to him? Surely, he has his reasons."

"How would we have talked? I wasn't going to bring it up with his sister there, and how odd would I have seemed to ask to speak with him alone?!"

"But—"

"It wasn't the right moment, Sybil!" Edith stood, suddenly wishing she hadn't come to her sister's room.

"When the right moment doesn't present itself, you have to present yourself to the moment."

Edith rolled her eyes. "That's easy for you to say."

"It's not easy, but sometimes if you want things to go your way you have to make them."

"In your mind rules and propriety don't matter, but they do!" Edith insisted. "They matter to him and they matter to me."

Sybil sighed, a bit frustrated at how easily Edith convinced herself that things weren't meant to go her way. So she tried another tactic. "Ask him tonight," Sybil said. "Discreetly, pull him away at some opportune moment. I'll help you."

"He's not coming to dinner. Neither of them is."

Sybil sighed again, this time irritated a bit at Sir Anthony. "Why couldn't he just tell her?"

"He did," Edith said. "At least that's what I have guessed—that he finally told her how he feels after we left tea and she doesn't approve and that's why they're not coming."

"Well," Sybil said, "I wish he were a braver man."

Sybil hadn't mean offense by her words, but they lit a spark in Edith, who turned quickly to face her sister, red-faced and angry.

"How dare you question the bravery of a man who's gone to war for our king and country!"

"Edith—"

"Perhaps he did truly like me, but we are all making assumptions as to his intentions. Whatever his inclinations were, he never made any ovations. He never said he wanted anything more than friendship from me. _I_ am the greedy cow who wanted more. Call me a fool for wishing for it, but do not cast aspersions on him. He has been nothing but the truest gentleman!"

Tears were streaming down Edith's face as she ran out of the room.

It was then that Sybil knew her sister was in love.

* * *

Edith excused herself from dinner, asking Anna, when the maid came in to dress her, to tell her mother that she had a headache and was going to bed early. Her absence didn't surprise Cora, but neither did Cora think much of it.

It was a quiet dinner, after which the women proceeded as usual to the drawing room. Sybil took two sips of her sherry before standing up to excuse herself to the library to read. Before she had taken three steps, Cora stopped her to announce the planned trip to London the following week.

Sybil sat back down, holding back an eyeroll as Cora began to speak of the opportunity to meet the dressmaker who had created the gowns that Mary and Edith had been presented in, as well as the chance to reestablish connections with friends who would likely be there to share the coming season, including the Bellasis family. But Sybil didn't hear any of that because as soon as she sat down, she considered seriously what a visit to London would actually mean for her.

She could see her old governess to update her on her progress and perhaps update her lesson plan.

She could see Imogen, and together, they could perhaps find a rally or event for the women's cause to attend.

She could visit the medical college to find, if nothing else, inspiration in walking its grounds.

Before her mother had even finished, Sybil expressed eager interest in the trip.

Mary easily guessed at the true nature of Sybil's excitement. So too would Edith have done had she been there. Cora did not know Sybil so well as Sybil's sisters did. Later that night, Cora would report to Robert that she had been right and that Sybil was like every other girl and the distractions of the season might be enough to steer her in the right path eventually.

She was, of course, wrong.

It didn't occur to Sybil, as she made her way to the library after her mother's announcement, that Cora could have misjudged so thoroughly the root of Sybil's interest in going to London. That was likely because since resolving to become a doctor, in spite of what Cora or Robert might have to say, Sybil had, without realizing it, also resolved not to give too much thought to what her parents thought about anything at all. It wasn't that what her parents thought didn't matter to her, it was that their opinions had become to Sybil largely irrelevant.

* * *

Robert and Matthew joined the ladies shortly after Sybil left, and conversation continued on the subject of London.

Isobel didn't have a particular interest in going and preferred to stay close to Crawley House, in the event that any news came from Ireland and the Bransons. But she encouraged Matthew to accept the invitation just the same, and he did, happily.

"Won't you be missed at the partnership?" Mary asked him.

"I won't make too long a holiday of it," he answered. "And I'm sure once I mention it, the partners will manage to find some business there for me to attend to." After speaking, Matthew waited to be sure the rest of the party continued to talk among themselves before asking Mary his next question. "I thought Sir Anthony and his sister were meant to be joining us," he said to her quietly. "Did something happen?"

"Mrs. Chetwood fell ill," Mary said.

"Oh, dear," Matthew said with sincere concern. "What was the illness? Is it the same as what befell Edith?"

"The very same," Mary said. "The desire to be foremost in Sir Anthony's considerations."

"Oh, _dear_ ," Matthew said again, this time more puzzled than concerned. "Did they quarrel?"

Mary opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind, deciding she didn't want to injure Edith by making her the subject of gossip, even if only within the family. "I shouldn't say," she said after a moment. "The truth is I don't know, and it would be unfair of me to guess."

Matthew smiled, pleased at Mary's concern for a sister whose feelings she had once been inclined to dismiss. She smiled but seeing a tiny bit of what looked like triumph in his eyes, she pursed her lips and arched her eyebrow.

"Don't be so proud of your influence on me," she said with a smirk. "I've always been capable of empathy, even where Edith is concerned. Your scolding me had nothing to do with it."

Matthew laughed. "I'm very glad to know you two are getting along better, but honestly, Mary, if I thought I had any influence on you whatsoever, your relationship with your sister is not the area of your life on which I would choose to exercise it."

Mary smiled into her sherry glass, and her heart began to beat a little faster. But she did not ask Matthew what he meant or in what area he _would_ choose to influence her.

She liked not knowing.

* * *

At the end of the night, before she went upstairs to bed, Sybil stole into the billiard room and headed straight for the small curio cabinet on which sat several decanters of her father's best whiskey. She knew which Tom favored because he had pointed it out to her once when they'd come into the room to be alone.

She poured a tiny bit into her now long-empty sherry glass and dipped her fingers in it. She watched the tiny drops run down onto the palm of her hand and blew on them until they dried. Then, she pressed a kiss into her fingertips, which now smelled vaguely the way his lips did when he would kiss her after dinner. Sybil laughed at herself, and after pouring a tiny bit more into her glass, she put the decanter back and then headed up to her room.

Laying in bed, looking up to the ceiling, Sybil closed her eyes and tried to picture where he might be in that moment and hoped that he felt her there with him as closely and she felt him here with her.

He was sitting on a curb, just outside a tiny pub in Dublin, watching his cousin Paddy take a drag of his cigarette. But he did feel Sybil there with him and he was grateful for her.


	43. One Night in Dublin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place entirely in Dublin on Tom's first full night back and takes us through the time he spends with his cousins, primarily Paddy. Of Claire's sister Aoife's four sons, he's the closest in age and temperament to Tom. In a very different way from Matthew, Tom considers Paddy a sort of brother too, even though they didn't grow up together and even though their lives are very different. Part of the reason that I wanted to spend some time getting to know him and the other people that appear in this chapter is that I wanted to give a sense of Tom outside of the influence of Reginald, Isobel and Matthew. In this universe, Tom's life has been marked by contact with the Crawley family from a very early age, but even so, I still conceived of him as very much like the Tom we see onscreen in canon. This chapter is intended bring to life some of the things that make Tom who he is, so I hope I did that well enough to keep those of you reading this story still engaged in it. Obviously, then, Sybil (along with the rest of her family) doesn't appear, though she is talked about at several points. The Ciaran storyline moves a little further, but that one (as everything with this story) is going to be a long game. The "professor's wife" who deflowered Tom (as he confessed to Sybil back in Chapter 37) also makes an appearance. 
> 
> Lastly, there's an Irish phrase used early in the chapter. The translation is at the end, though it's probably easy enough to guess what it means.

"And stay the feck out!"

Paddy smirked from where he sat on the curb opposite the pub his younger brother Damien had just been thrown out of. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he leaned over to his cousin and said, "Told you he wouldn't last an hour."

Tom, sitting next to Paddy, laughed in response as Damien picked himself up off the ground and yelled back at the barkeeper. " _Póg mo thóin_ ," he said, slapping his back side for good measure.

The barkeeper waved his hand dismissively at him. Then, pointing at Paddy and Tom, he said, "And don't you two think of coming back neither! We don't need rabble-rousers making trouble 'round here."

"Like I want to spend another minute in that hellhole!" Paddy barked back. "Might as well sell piss for beer."

"What's his problem?" Tom asked after the barkeeper had slammed the door to the dingy establishment where the three young men had gone for a handful of shots of whiskey and a round of beers after a family dinner at Aoife's house earlier that evening.

"He's got that broomstick wedged up his arse a bit tighter than normal," Damien answered, sitting down on the curb on Tom's other side.

The trio of cousins hadn't been at the pub but twenty minutes or so when Paddy and Tom got into a political argument with one of the owner's cousins—a unionist from Ulster visiting for the holidays who'd taken a seat at the table just behind them and made his opinions known much more loudly than someone who was eager to avoid notice might. Tom and Paddy couldn't help but engage him. Feeling the watchful eyes of the brawny barkeeper on them from the start, though, Paddy eventually pulled Tom outside to cool their tempers. Despite whatever assumptions anyone might make of Irish tempers, Padraig Mullen's political smarts included impeccable instincts with regard to when to avoid a fight. Tonight's particular encounter had not grown beyond reddened faces and raised voices before Paddy and Tom had stepped out, but even so Paddy knew it would do no good to let things escalate and come to blows over the fate of Ireland with a perfect stranger so early in Tom's first night out in Dublin in years.

Of course, almost as soon as Paddy and Tom stepped outside, Damien, who had remained inside, ran into the new lover of an old flame and found himself on the wrong end of the jealous boyfriend's fists, which came as no surprise to his brother. Lately, it never took Damien long to find trouble.

"So where are we supposed to go now?" Tom asked, looking back and forth between his two cousins.

Paddy took one last drag off his cigarette and shrugged his shoulders as he flicked it away. Leaning forward to look past Tom toward Damien he said, "Who told you to mess around with Jack O'Donohue's girl, anyway?" Paddy's voice was laced with irritation at his brother's seemingly never-ending "romantic" entanglements.

"Hey, she came chasing _me_!" Damien said defensively.

Tom laughed. Paddy rolled eyes and laughed too. Paddy couldn't deny that his brother's words were likely true. Damien Mullen had been blessed (his father used to say it was more akin to a curse) with exceedingly good looks. His green eyes and flaxen hair made him stand out among his brown-haired, brown-eyed brothers, and his high cheek bones (his mother called them "aristocratic") caused the inner edges of his cheeks to dimple when he smiled in a way that few young ladies (and even fewer older ones) who caught him smiling at them could resist. As a boy, he found the attention women paid him bewildering, but now at 23 years of age, with no job to keep his attention thanks to the ongoing Dublin lock-out, he'd stopped bothering fighting them all off—even the ones with boyfriends or husbands—and found that he rather enjoyed how much they enjoyed him.

"So where to now?" Tom asked.

"I suppose it's too early yet to call on your Mr. O'Shaunessy," Paddy said referring to the man whose name and Dublin address Ciaran had referred to in his letter to Claire. Tom had wanted to go see him and see if Ciaran was still there from the moment he and his mother had docked, but she insisted on collecting herself and getting settled at Aoife's house first and leaving the errand—emotionally and trying as it was likely to be—to the following morning. The wait was making Tom restless, which is why his cousins had suggested an outing to the pub—to get him out of his own head.

"Well, if we were to go there now, and your brother's there and he's up and drinking a pint, then you'll know he's one of us," Damien offered.

Tom laughed, though Paddy, who was watching him closely, could see right away that it rang a bit hollow.

"What do you think he'll be like?" Paddy asked.

Tom sighed. "I don't know. Mam always tells me I'm da's look-alike, so perhaps if he is as well he'll look like me. But then our lives have been so different, I honestly don't know what to expect."

"He lasted far longer than I would have living with the hateful bastards that raised him," Paddy offered, "so he's surely got the patience of a saint."

"Or no self-belief," Tom replied.

"Well, let's hope for his sake that he got as healthy a dose of Branson confidence in his blood as your da passed down to you," Paddy said, pushing on Tom's shoulder.

Tom laughed, this time more heartily, always used to the abuse he got from Paddy, who enjoyed thoroughly knocking his gentrified cousin down a peg or two whenever an opportunity to do so presented itself.

"I don't know about you two," Damien said standing up, "but I'm going to head home and see if a suitable diversion presents itself between there are here."

"I'd wish you luck," Paddy said, "but I'm afraid you have too much of it already. Diversions never have trouble finding _you_."

Damien laughed and waved as he took off walking down the narrow street, which had quietened considerably since they'd first made it to the pub.

"If he makes it home tonight, I'll eat my bloody hat," Paddy said.

"Who knew he'd turn out such a Casanova," Tom said laughing.

Paddy pulled out another cigarette. He lit it and took a drag that came out in one long stream of smoke that hovered over their heads in the chilly December air.

"We could do the same if you want," Paddy said.

Tom looked over at him. "Go home?"

Paddy nodded, taking another drag off his cigarette.

"No," Tom answered. "You can if you want, but I'm a bit too restless for sleep now. And anyway, this is my favorite time of night to be in Dublin."

Paddy narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Don't tell me you've gotten all nostalgic about this dirty place."

Tom chuckled. "You know what they say about what absence does to the heart."

"Anytime you want to switch places, you can take my bed at mam's, and I'll have that English castle you live in."

"Wouldn't that be going back on your socialist principles?" Tom teased.

"Why? Have you gone back on yours?" Paddy teased back.

Tom laughed and scratched his head. "I'd like to think not, but if you catch me acting especially posh, then you have my permission to knock my lights out."

"The fact that you think I'd ask permission confirms that you _have_ , indeed, gone soft."

Paddy and Tom both laughed. For several minutes, they sat in silence as Paddy smoked his cigarette. Eventually, though, the hardness of the cobblestones on which they sat coerced them back onto their feet, and the two young men began to walk with no particular destination, letting a city they both loved guide them through the dry, chilly night.

From the Mullen's modest, attached house on Geraldine Street in Phipsboro, Tom, Paddy and Aiden had headed down Berkeley Street toward to the pub, which opened on an alley off of Fontenay three blocks south. With Damien gone, Paddy and Tom kept walking south toward the river.

"Do you really want to leave Dublin?" Tom asked, after several minutes.

Paddy sighed. "Every fecking day . . . but not in a million years."

Tom waited to respond, seeing in Paddy's expression that he had more to say.

"I do want to . . . _do_ something with my life, but this bloody lock-out is just a reminder that the means are in someone else's hands. If I didn't think freedom for Ireland were so close, so . . . _attainable_ , then I'd just ship out to Boston or some such place."

"If that's what you really wanted, Paddy, I could help you," Tom said quietly. "I could pay for your passage and help get you set up."

Paddy looked at Tom as if seriously considering the offer. "Ask me again tomorrow," he said with a smile. After a long moment, he asked, "Do _you_ fancy going there?"

"America?" Tom thought for a moment. "Maybe. Haven't really thought about it, to be honest."

"So you like where ya are? Working with Mr. Crawley, and helping those people?"

"Working with Matthew has always been a laugh. It's not quite the same now, not having our own practice. But the work at the partnership is easier and more predictable, which leaves him time to see to the estate. I don't know that he'll want to be on our own again, given that."

Voicing the thought aloud for the first time, Tom realized how true it was. Matthew would likely continue to work at the partnership until it was his time to take on the earldom and management of the estate full time. Robert was still relatively young and healthy, so he'd likely not pass for another decade, maybe two. Still, as heir, Matthew's path was set fairly clearly before him. Whatever goals or aspirations Matthew might have had before were secondary now, if they remained in his mind at all. Tom enjoyed helping Matthew, but he had no true obligation to Downton, save what could be inferred from his love for Sybil, whom he knew to have no more of an interest in settling there permanantly than he. Perhaps in some previous version of the future, "Crawley & Branson, Attorneys-at-law" might have persevered, but that future was no longer likely. Tom would always see Matthew as his brother and accept his advice and influence in some measure, but in this moment Tom realized how thoroughly his choices about what to do with his life and where to take it need no longer be so closely aligned with the boy alongside whom he'd grown up.

" _I_ could be your partner," Paddy joked, taking Tom out of his reverie. "You do the lawyering, and I keep the clients in line."

"You could do more than be the office bruiser," Tom said. "Aunt Aoife says you do more than that for Larkin."

Paddy rolled his eyes. "She wishes. I'm little more than a glorified note taker. I started out just as a driver, mind you, but I do get to sit in on the meetings now at least."

"Do you speak up?"

"I'm a bit afraid they'll kick me out if I do."

"Why?"

Paddy shrugged. "There are plenty of men more educated than me in that room."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Tom responded carefully. "It's not too late."

Paddy lifted his hat and scratched his head. This wasn't the first time Tom had made this suggestion—going to university like Paddy's youngest brother Aidan was now doing.

When Reginald Crawley died, he bequeathed a not insignificant sum to Tom and his mother, and being the people they were, they offered each of Aoife's boys the help the family would need for them to study beyond what might have been possible before. Only the youngest, Aidan, accepted, and when the time finally came for him to go, he surprised his parents by choosing to follow Tom at Trinity—once appropriate permission was granted by his bishop, of course, who was only convinced by Tom's profuse assurances that four years at a Protestant institution hadn't managed to "corrupt" him, religiously speaking. Michael was already married when the offer had come and had a steady job and little interest in studying or books. Damien understood himself well enough to know that he'd not have the discipline for serious study. But it had puzzled Tom that Paddy hadn't also taken up their offer. He shared Tom's interest in history and politics, and though he was not so instinctively drawn to books as Tom, Tom had always assumed that difference stemmed from the difference in the opportunities that had been available to them. For Paddy, the decision not to attend university wasn't one that he'd taken lightly, but he'd seen enough of Tom's experience to know that it was not for him. Paddy would have felt deeply out of his depth in the tony lecture halls where Tom had formed his ideals and sense of self and sharpened his penchant for independent thought. Paddy, instead, preferred to work his way toward what he wanted, rather than step into a world that he knew would never feel truly his.

It wasn't a decision he regretted. He had still managed, to this point, to do what he wanted. He'd been among the first tramway workers who'd joined James Larkin's union and as a result among the first to be dismissed. But the organizers took notice and took him on. His compensation was a pittance, but he stayed mostly to be around Larkin himself, whose condemnations of injustice and poverty were awe-inspiring. Even if they hadn't proven effective in forcing immediate change—the lock-out was four-months long now and victory for the workers didn't seem likely—Paddy felt attitudes among those around him shifting. People were hungry, not just for food but for better. And for freedom.

Not all Republicans were pleased with Larkin's work, believing that organizing against Irish employers was a fruitless, futile endeavor that did little else but strengthen British interests. But Paddy paid such talk no mind, and when it came up at Volunteer meetings he attended, he ignored it easily. He believed that home rule in the hands of the privileged few, instead of the masses, would be an empty promise—freedom only in principle, not in fact. He wanted freedom for Ireland as well as for the poor, and he believed that each was necessary to achieve the other.

"I think I'm more the 'learn by doing' type," Paddy said finally.

Tom smiled. "I suppose it's true you can't sit still for very long."

"Not that there's been much learning by doing lately, with nothing at all to do," Paddy added. "To be honest, I don't think the lock-out has much life left."

"Truly?"

Paddy nodded. "People are getting desperate, and there's only so much hunger even Irish can endure. I do think things are changing, but there'll likely be more battles lost before the war's won."

"Would you go back to work on the tramway?" Tom asked.

"Feck no," Paddy said. "But don't tell mam or she'll kick me out."

Tom laughed. "I won't."

"So what do _you_ do exactly for those toffs of yours while I'm here fighting the people's fight?" Paddy asked, turning toward Tom with a smirk.

"For the estate, you mean?"

"Yeah. Don't tell me you're the rent collectin' tyrant Mr. Boyle used to be."

"Surely, you wouldn't think I'd be involved if it were like that," Tom said, brow furrowed in genuine irritation. "I haven't changed _that_ much."

"I don't know," Paddy said, looking his cousin up and down, "that's a fancier suit than you used to wear."

Tom laughed. "You should see what I have to wear to dine with the family."

"Oh, God. Top hat and tails?"

"I'm afraid so. I tried to talk my way out of it when we first left Manchester, but Aunt Isobel insisted we all look the part."

Paddy laughed. "You're a proper wolf in sheep's clothing, then."

"Something like that." Tom though silently for a moment, then said, "They're good people. I mean they're slaves to their meaningless rituals like all the rest, but Lord Grantham . . . despite some twisted values, his heart doesn't lack for compassion. He's more or less let us have the run of the place. It's not a Marxist revolution exactly, but more of the wealth— _the means_ —are in the hands of the tenants now. Delderfield collapsed because its owners starved out its keepers. No one will go hungry at Downton, not on Matthew's account."

Paddy nodded, seemingly impressed, but he wouldn't be himself if he didn't get another dig in. "Meanwhile, you get to live in a castle," he said.

Tom laughed, "No, as it happens, I don't actually get live in it."

Paddy scoffed. "You mean to tell me that you do all that work and you don't even get to enjoy the spoils? Do they keep you in the servants' quarters?"

"We live in a house in the village. It's owned by the family—the whole village is, really. Most of it, anyway. Crawley House is larger and nicer than our place in Manchester, but modest when compared with Downton Abbey, in which I'll never live, I'm fairly certain. I wouldn't unless Matthew was earl, and that's not likely for many years. If he were to move there before Robert's death it'd only be if he married the eldest daughter."

"Oh? Does he fancy her?" Paddy asked.

"Very much, I think—though I reckon he'd be loath to admit it. They got off to a bit of a rocky start, but I do believe they'd be well matched. Her parents want for them to marry so she could have what would have been hers if she were the male heir."

"Does _she_ like Matthew?"

Tom thought for a moment. "It's hard to say. There's very little of saying what one means among their type."

Paddy laughed. "So I suppose it'd be stupid to ask if any of the daughters fancy you."

Tom's step faltered slightly, which did not escape Paddy's notice.

"What?!" He exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. "Don't tell me Damien's got competition as the skirt chaser of the family!"

"Not from me, no," Tom said laughing.

"So it's just one then."

Tom looked at Paddy from the side of his eyes, and despite the knowing smirk on Paddy's face, Tom knew he could trust his cousin with this confidence.

"Yeah." He finally said quietly.

"Does Aunt Claire know?"

Tom smiled. "She does. Don't think she was too keen on the idea at first, but she's come to love her too."

Paddy stopped his walk and threw his head back. "Love?! Dear God, cousin, you're positively done in!"

Tom laughed, grabbing Paddy's arm and pulling him along. "I suppose I am."

"What's her name, then?"

"Sybil," Tom answered, adding after a moment, "She's the earl's third daughter."

Paddy threw his head back in laughter again. "You marryin' a proper lady! Can't say I would have guessed it. I suppose gracious living does things to you."

Tom rolled his eyes and knocked Paddy with his shoulder playfully. "She's not as bad as all that. She's a suffragette, if you must know. And incredibly clever for someone who's never set foot inside a school. She could teach you a few things about politics."

"You're her eager student, certainly."

"I am," Tom said with a sigh. "It'd be useless to deny it."

Paddy chuckled. "Tommy Branson in love, who'd have thought. And will her parents accept an Irish Catholic devil like you as her husband?"

"That remains to be seen, but we've determined that it doesn't matter."

"Well, let's go burn the town then," Paddy said with a laugh. "Next time I see you, you might be an old married man."

Having made it down to the river, Paddy and Tom crossed Grattan Bridge then walked down Parliament Street toward Dame Street. The familiar sights and sounds made Tom all the more eager to see his old haunts. Confident they could find a gathering of some sort, with people already drunk enough not to mind a pair of interlopers taking their whiskey, he convinced Paddy to head toward Trinity. Even at this time of night, now nearing midnight, Dame Street was plenty lively, with people coming in and out of the Central Hotel and Jury's Hotel on opposite sides of the street, which is why it came as a surprise to Tom that there weren't all that many people about when he and Paddy reached the campus.

"So where to now?" Paddy asked.

Tom frowned and scratched his head. "I don't know. . . when I was a student here, I always just knew where to go."

Paddy laughed. "I'm sure you did." Looking around the austere buildings skeptically, he added, "I can't imagine we're going to find any kind of party I'd enjoy around here."

"I think you'd be surprised," Tom said with a smile.

"Well, even so, no use hanging 'round where there's nothing happening," Paddy said, starting to walk again. "Let's get going. We can't go that far in Dublin without hitting a decent pub eventually."

"We could go to Aidan's flat," Tom offered. "Where does he live?"

"Feck if I know."

"You don't know where he lives?"

"I'm sure it's around here somewhere," Paddy said with a shrug. "When he comes 'round this week you can ask him."

Time wondered about Paddy's seeming indifference for a moment if there was some tension among the brothers. "Is everything alright with him?" he asked.

"I suppose so. He just doesn't come around much except for Sundays, and I think that's only because Bishop Kelly would have him excommunicated if he skipped one mass. Mam has her hands full trying to wrangle Damien so—"

"And you!"

Paddy chuckled. " _And_ me, so she doesn't much worry about him. Even when he was at home, he was always off on his own. I guess being here suits him. It's OK, it's just . . . kind of odd seeing the little one not need you like he used to."

Tom smiled. "Well, in his defense it's hard not to get so immersed in your first year."

"You'd know better than me."

After several minutes of fairly aimless wondering, Paddy spoke again, "So you really don't have any ideas as to where to go?"

Tom thought for a moment. "Well, I have one, but . . . "

"But what?"

Tom smirked. "Not sure what you'll think of it."

"Well, we won't know unless we try, will we!"

Both young men laughed as they set off.

"Maybe will even see Aiden there," Tom said.

"How do you figure?"

"Every student at Trinity makes it to this place at least once."

* * *

 

It was a short walk. To Paddy's surprise, they ended up at a private residence, just off of Merrion Square. The modest brick façade wasn't much to look at, and as they approached it, he wondered exactly what Tom was getting him into.

Paddy stayed behind on the walk as Tom went up the steps. Before knocking he leaned into the door to see if he could discern any activity on the other side. Before he'd had the chance to hear anything, though, the door swung open from the inside and clipped Tom on the left temple.

"Bloody hell!"

A young couple no older than Tom and Paddy emerged from behind the door, in an obvious state of drunkenness and oblivious as to the minor cut they had just inflicted. The young man had a half-empty bottle in his hand and as he and his female companion stumbled, giggling, down the steps, he handed it off to a bewildered Paddy.

"Here ya go, mate," he said with a grin. "As you can see I've got my hands full."

"Come on, darling," the young woman said pulling on the collar of the man's jacket. "It's getting late, and my da will be home soon."

Paddy rolled his eyes as they went on their way, as Tom came back down the steps with his hand on his forehead, which was bleeding. Without bothering to look at what was in the bottle, Paddy went to take a long pull and spit out the liquid almost as soon as it hit his mouth.

"What the feck is that?"

Laughing, Tom took the bottle and held it to his nose. "It's absinthe."

Paddy took the bottle back and sniffed it himself. "The devil's piss, that is."

"Never had a taste for the stuff myself, so let's hope they have better inside, and something to wash this blood off."

So up they went back up the steps and through the still open door, beyond which a loud gathering was taking place. It was hard to tell how many were inside, given how tightly packed they were. A jazz tune was playing on a Victrola on corner just inside the entryway, but even this close to it, the music was barely audible, such was the din from the myriad conversations taking place. The main room opened up to the left, and at the far end a man dressed in nothing but a bed sheet could be seen reciting something in Irish—though what it was was hard to say. The crowd around him burst into cheers every so often as his voice crescendoed, effectively drowning him out.

"I certainly hope that was never you," Paddy said pointing at the man.

Tom laughed. "Hardly. I didn't take my philosophy nearly so seriously." Turning around and pointing to the parlor behind them, Tom added, "There's a bar just in there. I'm going to go find something to clean this up in the kitchen."

Paddy nodded, and Tom headed down the hall into the kitchen. The room was empty and, therefore, much quieter than the rest of the house. He walked over to the cupboard and rifled around a bit until he found a set of clean towels stacked up neatly near the top. He grabbed one and walked over to the sink, which sputtered slightly as he turned the knob until finally a small trickle of water came out. He was waiting for the towel to dampen when another couple, this one in the throes of a very passionate kiss, scrambled in not noticing Tom. They were climbing onto the table when the man suddenly realized they were not alone. He straightened abruptly and the woman, still sprawled out on the table purred, "Come on, love, don't be shy!"

The young man pointed to Tom, who was more or less cornered (otherwise, he'd had made himself scarce as discreetly as possible).

The woman sat up and looked over her shoulder. "I've said repeatedly that the kitchen is off—" She stopped suddenly on recognizing him. "Tom Branson!"

Tom suddenly understood what he'd been caught in the middle of, and it was as if he were stepping into a memory. She looked as beautiful and alluring now as she had to the naive 20-year-old version of himself she'd seduced—not unlike how she was doing to the young man with her now, likely no older or wiser than Tom had been.

"Mrs. Stuart," he said, nodding slightly.

She smiled. "You were always so cheeky with that. You know you can call me Madeleine."

Hopping off the table as if she had not been caught in the middle of anything untoward, she said to her young companion, "Darling, no need to blush, this is an old friend. Tom Branson, Benjamin Hammersmith, Benjamin, this is Tom. Not an unpleasant surprise, to be sure. Are you back living in Dublin, Tom? Last I heard you were in England."

"Still am, actually," Tom said, rather amused at how true it remained that very little rattled her. "I just came back to settle some family business."

She smiled and stepped forward to greet him properly when she noticed the small cut on his forehead. "Good heavens, what's happened? Gotten into a row already? I remember you as being rather spirited."

Tom chuckled. "No, just an accident of ill-timing."

With a wave of her hand but without turning to look at him, Madeleine said, "Benjamin, would you be a dear and fetch me the bottle of iodine in the cupboard just there."

Tom looked over to the young man, whose expression was starting to go from embarrassed to irritated. Even so, he did as he was told.

Madeleine walked up to Tom and grabbed the wet towel from his hands. She moved to push his fringe away from his forehead with her fingers, but Tom took a step back, which caused her to smirk. "Shy all of a sudden?"

"I was rather shy when we met," he said with a shrug.

"Ha! You were the cockiest little shit that ever came into my bed, and don't you deny it."

Tom rolled his eyes, but he could feel a measure of warmth coming into his cheeks.

"Come now," Madeleine said, exasperated, "I don't want you bleeding all over my kitchen, and you know how I don't trust men to do anything themselves."

Tom sighed and stepped forward again. As she cleaned off the blood that had begun to dry on his forehead, Benjamin came back in from the cupboard and handed Madeleine the bottle. She opened it, dabbed a bit on the towel and said, "This will sting."

Carefully, she touched the towel to Tom's forehead and held it there for a second. Again, without turning to look at him, she said to Benjamin, "Darling, why don't you go on upstairs and wait for me there. I know how you like the kitchen, but we'll not be interrupted there."

With a sigh, Benjamin nodded and turned to go.

"And I'll be very disappointed if I get up there and find you very clothed," she added.

Tom couldn't hold in his laugh as the young man left, embarrassed once again.

"Why must you torment them so?" he asked.

Madeleine laugh. "Torment them!? Don't make me laugh. Men love nothing more than a woman who tells them what to do."

Tom smiled and looked down, suddenly thinking of Sybil.

Madeleine noticed the change in his expression and raised her eyebrows. "You look rather bewitched."

"I guess you could say I am."

Madeleine dabbed his forehead one more time, then tossed the towel in the sink and stepped away. "It takes a real man to admit such a thing—or real love—so I shall offer nothing but my congratulations to you and send her my best wishes. She'll have her hands full with you as a husband, I've no doubt."

"And yet I wonder myself whether I'll be able to keep up with her."

Smiling, Madeleine walked around the table toward the door, and Tom wondered if she was leaving. But instead of leaving, she stopped to open a drawer and pulled out a silver cigarette case and some matches. She drew one cigarette out of the case and lit it.

"Do you want some advice on married life?"

Tom laughed. "From you?"

"Laugh all you like, but I've been happily married for twenty years," she said nonplussed at his reaction. "Walter and I are best friends, and I'd just as soon kill myself as leave him."

"How is he?" Tom asked.

She smiled. "Upstairs with _his_ latest piece. I don't like interrupting him, and I don't know whether he'll come back down."

"Give him my regards, then." They stood there in silence for a long moment before Tom said, "I'm sorry for laughing. That was a bit cynical."

Madeleine took a drag off her cigarette. "Be what she needs."

Tom smiled and looked down a bit sheepishly. "That's good advice."

Madeleine smiled knowingly. "Of course, it is. I know everything."

She walked to the back of the kitchen toward the cupboard and after minute came back with an unopened bottle of top-shelf whiskey.

"Here," she said handing it to him. "I know it's your favorite. For old time's sake."

"Thank you," Tom said, taking it, a bit surprised by the gesture.

"Are you really, properly in love?" she asked.

"I am."

"Good," she said with a sincerity that he found rather touching. "I'm happy for you."

Madeleine reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek. On the way out the door, just before it closed behind her, she called out, "If you remember everything I taught you, she'll be a happy, happy bride."

Tom laughed again at her words, knowing they were likely true. Touching his forehead one more time, he could feel that the iodine had dried, so he went to rescue his cousin.

Paddy was easy to find, having ensnared himself into his second political argument of the night. Tom could hear his distinctive brogue over the marginally more refined accents of those with whom he was arguing from all the way down the hall. As he walked in that direction, he heard steps coming down the stairs next to him. Looking up, he saw another young man coming down the steps. His dark, curly brown hair was a bit disheveled, as were his tie and jacket. Being in such a state was a rare thing for this young man, who usually took care of his appearance, which is why it took a double-take for Tom to realize it was his cousin Aidan when the two arrived at the entryway at the bottom of the stairs and the end of the hall at the same time.

"Tom?" Aidan exclaimed, recognizing him. "What the feck are you doing here?"

"Aidan!" Tom grabbed his youngest cousin into a hug amid which he realized that he'd come from upstairs, and there really was only one reason anyone ever went upstairs at the Stuarts' house. Taking a step back he said, "What are _you_ doing here?"

Aidan ran his fingers through his hair to settle it a bit and straightened his tie. "Why does anyone ever come here?" he said, a small measure of timidity creeping into his voice.

"For the conversation," Tom answered with a sly smile, using the common euphemism among students who frequented the home of Walter Stuart, the longtime philosophy professor, and Madeleine, his sophisticated wife, who were known for their raucous, hedonistic salons, held practically every night classes were in session. When Tom had told Paddy that they might find Aidan there, he was partly joking, but also partly serious. Tom wasn't surprised about seeing him—only about the fact he seemed to have been spending time in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and not Madeleine's so far as Tom could guess.

Tom looked at his cousin for a moment then up the stairs he had just come down. Aiden followed Tom's eyes up, and in an effort to interrupt the thought he could see forming in Tom's mind, spoke up, "Listen, Tom—"

But Tom interrupted before he could finish, having decided in the previous moment that whatever his cousin had been doing, Tom didn't need or care to know. "What do you say we get out of here and go get properly drunk?"

Aidan's brow furrowed. "What?"

Tom lifted up the bottle in his hands so that Aiden could see it. "But first we need to go rescue Padraig, over there, from himself."

And sure enough, the voices in the parlor just beyond where they were standing rose up in pitch once again.

"Dear God," Aidan said laughing.

Tom and Aidan walked into the room to see a group of about seven or eight students talking at each other, with Paddy standing in the middle. The conversation was boisterous, but not necessarily belligerent.

Looking up Paddy saw Tom and Aidan coming toward him. Turning to the group, he grinned cockily and said, "Go back to your bloody books, and come find me when you've actually lived life."

"Did you manage to convert anyone?" Tom asked Paddy with a cocked eyebrow.

"Fools, all of them," he replied "They call themselves Republicans, but they make more excuses for the bloody crown than the fecking king himself."

All three of them laughed as they headed for the door. They practically ran all the way to St. Stephen's Green several blocks away. There, they sat on the grass passing the bottle among themselves until the pink hues of the sunrise could be seen coming from the eastern skies. They spoke about Ireland and independence, their socialism and their futures and all of the things big and small that young men talk about when alcohol is there to loosen the tongue. Aidan and Paddy, in particular, got an earful about Sybil—her cleverness, her beauty, her plans to be a doctor. In short, all of the things about her that would not be terribly uncouth for Tom to share. By the time they finally made it back to Aoife's house (Tom paid for a taxi), neither of their mothers was particularly pleased at the sight of them.

Tom would have called it one of the best nights of his life had it not been for the fact that only a few hours after the boys had made it home, he and his mother arrived at the address where they'd hoped to find Ciaran only to hear that both he and his friend had long since left. The disappointment was sharp and deep. The landlord remembered Ciaran but had little to offer so far as information about his possible whereabouts except to say that he'd once heard Ciaran make a passing reference to visiting Cork.

"It makes sense," Tom said to Claire as they made their way back to Aoife's later that afternoon. "He went to Galway in search of da. Why wouldn't he also go to the place where his parents were married—where he was meant to be born."

"Except I wouldn't even begin to know where to look for someone there. I've never been."

"We could travel there from here, but we'd not have the time we'd likely need for a search, not a fruitful one, anyway."

"I couldn't stay away from Mrs. Crawley that long. I want to find him desperately, but the effort it would take to do so requires more than I believe either of us could give at the moment."

Tom looked down and sighed. "I just hope this isn't the end of the story. I don't want to have found out about Ciaran only for him to remain a far off possibility for the rest of my life and not a real person."

"He found us once," Claire replied, trying to sound as if she wasn't losing hope. "Maybe he will find us again."

* * *

 

**Two weeks later**

_Dear Matthew,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well and that you, Aunt Isobel, Moseley and Ivy have weathered our absence well. I can only imagine that you have and that you had a memorable Christmas at Downton with the rest of the family. I apologize for not having written before to update you on our search for Mr. Ciaran Harrington, but as you have probably guessed he was not to be found here in Dublin. Unfortunately, the man with whom he was lodging here has also moved on and the owner of the flat knows little of where they might have gone. I have reason to believe that Mr. Harrington might have traveled to Cork, which is where our father and his mother were married and where they lived during their brief time as husband and wife. He would have wanted to travel there, I think, to find perhaps some other clue as to his past. With nowhere to begin searching there, mam and I decided to remain in Dublin and enjoy the company of our family for these last two weeks before returning home._

_Home. It's a funny word to say about Downton, and yet it cannot help but be true. I doubt it will be so forever, but having been away from it this fortnight I've come to realize just how like family the Crawleys—yes, even Robert!—have become. I dare say in some respects I remain rather alien to them and they to me. That likely shall always be the case with Sybil as the one welcome exception. But I have felt their absence as one misses only those he holds dear. I wouldn't have thought such a feeling in me possible after the passage of our first month at Crawley House, but I can't deny it now. Having said that, however, I am glad to have spent this time with my Aunt and cousins. Theirs is a harder life, but they live it with determination and dignity—more than I sometimes believe myself able to muster in my own circumstances. It is they who keep me grounded in who I truly am and what I hope for the future for myself and this world we live in._

_I shall stop writing lest I get any more silly or sentimental. We will be returning just before the new year and, therefore, will be there to mark the turn of the calendar and the servants ball at Downton Abbey. Mam has already begun to make a whole host of excuses as to why she won't be attending, but I'll have a dance with my mother in the middle of that great hall if for no other reason than because I can. What do you suppose Robert will think of that?_

_Sincerely, Your Brother,_

_T. Branson_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Póg mo thóin" means kiss my [insert appropriately colorful curse word for "back side" here].
> 
> Historical note (1): Trinity College Dublin was, at the time of this story, a primarily Protestant institution and a place where Catholics were accepted among the student body but not in positions of leadership. As a result, the Catholic Church forbade students going there unless they were given special permission by their bishop. There were several reasons why I chose this as the place Tom went to university. 
> 
> First and foremost, as odd as this sounds, this was an effort to approximate how canon Tom formed his ideals. Canon Tom didn’t go to college, obviously, but we know he is smart and well informed about history, politics and the news of the day because he reads so much. Given that, I wanted this version of Tom to have had a good formal education, but to still have formed his ideals largely on his own. My thought, then, was that as a Catholic in a place were the leadership was entirely Protestant, he’d go in as a skeptic from the start and learn to question and think critically about what he was being taught so that the opinions he was forming were truly his own. I also don’t believe that Tom (in canon or this story) would be such a hard-nosed doctrinaire Catholic that he wouldn’t accept the opportunity to learn among people who were different from him. He remains a steadfast Catholic for cultural and familial reasons, not because he subscribes to the religious ritual of it—much like Sybil herself, who “believes in God” as she tells us, but is not interested in doctrine.
> 
> Also, in my mind, Reginald Crawley would have played a very significant role in Tom’s choice of a university. His preference would have been for Tom to go to Oxford or Cambridge, but Tom and Claire would have wanted him to stay in Ireland, so Trinity, which was originally founded to be the Oxbridge of Ireland (though only one college was established) would have been a compromise. In chapter 4, when we meet Tom and Matthew, Tom mentions Trinity and says “Why else would Uncle Reg have approved me going there?” I chose those words for a reason. Reginald was Tom’s patron and as such exerted significant influence on the choice. I’ve described Reginald as a good man (he was), but like all humans, he was not without prejudices. How I’ve drawn him in my mind, he would not have considered a Catholic university as the best thing for Tom to realize his potential for all the reasons people of his time would have had to be skeptical about things that were different from their own experiences. 
> 
> Lastly, on this issue, I don’t know whether this was particularly subtle or not, but in case you missed the suggestion in the chapter, Tom's cousin Aidan is gay. That’s not necessarily going to play a role in the story going forward, but with such a large cast of characters as this story is introducing, it felt right to bring someone else who was gay into the mix so that Thomas didn’t feel like such a token. Aidan choses to go to Trinity partly because Tom went there but also because he wanted to get away a bit from his family a little bit.
> 
> Historical note (2): The Larkin mentioned in this chapter is James Larkin who was an Irish union organizer and socialist activist—there was apparently some tension between him and other Republicans who saw the Dublin Lock-out of 1913 as debilitating to Irish businesses.


	44. Speakers Corner

**St. James Square, London**

"It's not as impressive as Downton's library."

Matthew turned to see Mary standing at the door of the small library at Grantham House. The family had arrived the previous afternoon, so Matthew was still getting to know the house.

"It's plenty impressive on its own," he said turning toward her with an easy smile.

"Didn't you come here when you first met papa?" Mary asked, sitting down on one of the sofas.

"No, as it happens," Matthew replied. "We met at his club."

"I wonder that he didn't bring you round?"

"Maybe he wanted to have a look at me first."

It was snowing outside, and noticing for the first time, Mary stood and walked over to one of the windows.

Matthew watched her as she did so. "Would your reception have been any warmer had you met me here, as a visitor for the first time, instead of already settled at Crawley house?"

Mary looked back at him to discern the intention behind the question. She could see looking into his eyes that he was mostly teasing, but also sensed that there was something else—a desire, perhaps, to know if things between them hadn't needed to be so contentious at the start.

Mary wasn't sure what to say in response. Any witty bon mot would have done to tease him back, but would it also reveal the regret she felt about her attitude then? She knew she was right to feel done wrong by the entail, but she knew now that she hadn't needed to make an enemy of him and wished she hadn't been so plainly petty and immature. Even if that enmity hadn't lasted, it changed things between them. It changed things for her.

So she avoided his question altogether. "It's not been two years since it all happened, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. For twenty years, I was so sure life would be one thing, and then so suddenly it was something else, and now I can hardly remember what it was like before."

Matthew continued to watch her as her eyes remained set on the falling snow outside. "The change was even more stark for me," he said.

Mary looked at him and smiled. "I suppose that's true."

"It doesn't have to be that different, you know," Matthew added quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"The life you thought you'd have—you could still have it."

Mary narrowed her eyes at him again trying to discern his meaning, his eyes no longer as plainly readable to her as they had seemed only moments ago.

But Matthew couldn't hold her stare, and looking away, he said, "I wouldn't presume to know what you may have wanted out of life while Patrick was still alive, but short of his presence in your life and him being your husband, I don't see that you couldn't have everything else . . . be married, be mistress of a grand house. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Mary sighed. "I'm not sure what I want—neither am I sure whether the things I used to believe would be mine easily were the right things to want. I wanted to marry Patrick, but only because I wanted Downton and believed that being there would matter above all else. Now, however, it seems wrong to believe that. I think . . . I _know_ now that the house I love so much would have become a prison if I'd been there for the rest of my life with a person whom I did not love the way one is meant to love a husband."

Matthew didn't know what to make of what she was saying. Mary was not an emotional person and kept what feelings she allowed herself to have close to the chest. Her candor in this moment surprised Matthew, not least because it revealed that somehow, in the last year, Mary had decided that she wanted to be in love. A marriage might have been what she was after before—a _good_ marriage, as she had been taught to seek and expect—but that was, apparently, no longer what she wished for, at least not without love. He wondered what it was that had turned her, but he didn't speak.

So Mary continued, the door to her heart having opened a tiny bit, not scaring her as she might have thought it would, but instead making her feel unburdened. "Do you remember Mr. Napier?"

Matthew nodded.

"Mama said that he told her in parting with her that he couldn't marry a woman who didn't love him. This was just after he'd gone from Downton after that miserable business with his Turkish friend. I remember, at the time mama shared this with me, feeling sorry for him and wondering how a seemingly intelligent man could lack for sense so thoroughly. But it turns out he was more right than I was." Mary paused to laugh at herself, " If only I hadn't shoved him off, there would still be a chance for me and the things you say, marriage and a house and all of that."

Mary was referring, of course, to the conjecture that had emerged in London after Evelyn had returned there without having secured her hand in marriage. As societies that prize men above women do, the idea that such a coveted bachelor would be turned away was unthinkable, so the only assumption that those who engaged in such talk could make was that he had not found her worthy. And soon, that became an assumption that no man would, no matter how beautiful she was or how celebrated in the highest circles she had been once. Such was the talk that Rosamund had warned Robert and Cora about in her letter months before. None of it bothered Mary, because what she had said to Matthew was true. In her emerging friendship with the distant cousin that she had once sought to despise, she discovered something so close to love that she understood why love was the only thing worth having.

In that moment, Matthew understood several things about his situation with Mary more clearly than he ever had—that she had let him in, that to know her was to love her, and that despite these realizations, it was still likely that he might never be with her the way he now realized he wanted to be. Because in that moment, Matthew took Mary's words at face value. He thought she was speaking of a lost opportunity to love Napier himself, and because Matthew knew only how to love selflessly, he resolved to do what he believed just then might make her happy. Even if what she'd really confessed—in the circuitous way that only Mary could address her own feelings—was that she wanted to be loved, and that the once hideous possibility of being loved by him was no longer that.

"Thank you for your honesty," he said finally.

"Thank you for being my friend," she said with a soft smile. "In spite of how hard I made it for you."

"Who'd have thought?"

"That we'd be friends?" Mary asked. "Or that I'd be grateful for it being true?"

"That you'd forget that at the start I wasn't particularly nice to you either."

"What are you talking about? The snobbery was entirely on my part."

"But I didn't go out of my way to make any ovations of friendship."

"Because you knew you'd be rebuffed. I appreciate you trying rewrite history to spare me embarrassment, but having conceded too many points to you already, I am prepared to argue this one until you agree that I am right. Because I am."

Matthew couldn't help but laugh. And Mary smiled, as she always did when she succeeded in making him do so.

A comfortable, but charged silence hung between them for a long moment, interrupted by the bell of the front door.

Matthew looked at the clock, it was early yet in the afternoon. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Mary shook her head and walked to the hall, where Carson, who'd come to the house with the family, was already walking toward the door. As soon as he opened it, Imogen Wilkes burst in with such energy, it was as if the wind and snow behind her were pushing her through into the entrance hall in an effort to invade its warmth.

"Oh, thank you, Carson!" she exclaimed before the butler could say his own greeting. "How wonderful to see you, and the whole family, in London in December. It does get rather dreary here this time of year, and nothing brightens things up like the presence of good friends. And who are the Crawleys but the best of friends. Do tell Lady Sybil I've arrived. I'm so excited to see her—oh, Mary! How lovely you look!"

"Hello, Imogen," Mary said, using all her strength not to roll her eyes at Imogen's customary exuberance. "Thank you, Carson, you may go let Lady Sybil know her friend is here."

"Certainly, milady," Carson replied, no more eager than Mary to put up with Imogen's chatter.

Imogen, meanwhile, had walked past Mary into the library where Matthew offered his greetings at her entrance.

"Hello, Mr. Crawley, how nice to see you again. I hope you're enjoying London—it'll be nothing like this in June, of course, the weather, I mean. It simply won't stop blanketing us with grayness and snow. I don't mind the snow personally, but wouldn't it be nice if we had some sunshine as well. New York is far gentler in that regard, not to say that London is wholly without charms in the winter, but I do prefer the warmer weather myself. Do tell me how your mother and Mr. Branson are? I'm sorry that they couldn't be here also, for I always love seeing acquaintances again. Sybil mentioned Mr. Branson was in Dublin on family business. I hope he is getting along well. Do you suppose he is?"

Matthew looked at Mary for a moment as if wondering whether it was OK to speak, now that Imogen had finally fallen quiet, but all he could read from Mary's expression was, _Please, don't say anything that will encourage her._

Matthew smiled as he looked back at Imogen, and said, "I can only assume that he's doing well, and enjoying seeing his family."

Imogen opened her mouth and Mary and Matthew braced themselves for another torrent when Sybil came into the room.

"Imogen!" she said stepping forward to pull her friend into a hug.

"Oh, darling, Sybil, how perfectly wonderful to see you! It's really been far too long. After you return to Downton, I will not let a month go by before I come for a visit."

"What would London and the cause do without you?" Sybil asked, teasing.

"Get along very well, I dare say," Imogen said with a sigh. "Speaking of, we should get going if we want—"

"I'll get my coat!" Sybil interrupted, not wanting to give away their plans for the afternoon, lest it get back to her mother and father that she was doing something other than anticipating her season, still six months hence.

"What exactly are you to planning on doing?" Mary asked, as she followed Sybil out of the library and into the hall with her eyes.

"We're going to Selfridge's," Imogen said without missing a beat, having understood the implication of Sybil's interruption immediately. "Lady Susan Darlington holds a meeting there every Tuesday for her committee on the women's vote. The meetings themselves are usually horribly boring, but Lady Darlington herself is rather bold in her own involvement. I wouldn't have thought so for a woman of her age and stature, but there you have it. She wouldn't rival the Pankhursts in boldness but I don't discount her influence. She says she's endured the pains of men's rule for far longer than anyone else and should, therefore, never be questioned on the matter. I wouldn't dare, of course. I'm so happy that Sybil is here to attend with me, as I'll finally have someone to talk to. Perhaps we'll do some shopping afterward. It's never too early to start preparing for June."

Sybil smiled at that last, silently thanking Imogen for such a beautifully embellished lie. Looking over at Mary, Sybil saw that she seemed satisfied with Imogen's answer. Mary wouldn't dare ask any more questions that would get Imogen started again in any case, so Sybil took that as the opportunity for them to get going.

"Shall we go then?" Sybil asked.

"Yes, let's do," Imogen said. "Lovely to see you both again!"

"Don't be too long," Mary said, as the two young women headed out. "Remember who's coming to dinner."

Sybil rolled her eyes, but did not respond.

When they were alone again, Matthew said, "Cora hadn't mentioned that there would be guests tonight."

"The Bellasis family," Mary answered. "You might have met them at the garden party."

"The name sounds familiar, but then they all sort of run together."

Mary smiled. "They're old friends."

"Aren't they all," Matthew responded with a smile. "Any particular reason for their visit?"

Mary hesitated. "No, not that I know of," she said, not quite meeting Matthew's eyes, but offering the lie off-handedly enough that Matthew did not detect it. She realized just then that she didn't like being dishonest with him, but what could she say without revealing that her parents intended to create an attachment between Sybil and the Bellasis' son, Tom—despite the already existing one between Sybil and Matthew's adopted brother. It would have made Matthew uncomfortable to know and might have forced Mary to admit to him that, despite their affection for Tom Branson as a person, her parents would likely never think him high enough for their daughter. It might also have forced Mary to admit that, if things were different, she might have agreed with them.

She didn't like making such an admission, even to herself, especially now that she understood that Tom—and Matthew—were better people for their liberal upbringing, whereas the gentlemen she had been taught to admire often proved to be no gentlemen at all. In any case, Mary knew that Sybil's heart was set—no matter how their parents might try to persuade her otherwise. She saw no harm in leaving Matthew ignorant of Cora's mission, given that in all likelihood it would fail.

* * *

 

Outside, the snow was beginning to let up, but the wind continued to whip this way and that, adding a crispness to the already chilly air. The weather didn't dampen the spirits of Sybil and Imogen, though. In letters back and forth in the week leading up to the Crawleys' time in London, the two young women had planned an afternoon for themselves that would begin with a visit to the Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park, where the Socialist Party of Great Britain would be holding a debate with the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies on the progress and urgency of the suffrage movement. After, they were to head to Eaton Square Gardens, where they'd arranged to meet Sybil's former governess Miss Perry, at a tea room near the home of her current employers in Belgravia.

As they walked toward Piccadilly, Imogen asked Sybil the same question that Matthew had asked Mary as to who the dinner guests would be that night, but Imogen was given a more complete answer.

Cora had not exactly leveled with Sybil as to why she'd be introduced to Tom Bellasis again, but in her talk with Sybil earlier that day—about the importance of making new friends, broadening one's horizons beyond the quaint ("but sometimes inadequate," in Cora's words) social circles of the country, preparing for what was to come, and doing what was _expected_ —Sybil saw the invitation, the _expectation_ , for what it was. She'd not spoken up, having learned that humoring her mother was often the best way to be left alone, but Sybil had no intention of considering any future in which Tom _Branson_ was not her husband.

"Why don't you just tell them that you want to marry your Tom now?" Imogen asked, after Sybil explained her conundrum.

Sybil sighed. "I've thought about it many times, and it's been on the tip of my tongue more often that is likely prudent, but . . . I know what their answer would be if I said it now—that I'm too young, that I haven't lived enough or been around the right people, and that exposure to society and the season and all that comes with it will change my mind. I want to live all of that first, so I can say with certainty that I've experienced everything about this life that they want me to and that I don't want any of it."

"But maybe you will think differently after June comes. Our season might prove very fun indeed. I understand your character, darling, but you can't be sure. Especially not when we'll be doing it together."

Sybil smiled and looped her arm into Imogen's. "I'm sure we'll have much fun. I just mean that however nice it all may be, it won't change my mind about Tom. Of that I am certain. This world won't welcome him easily. My parents know that, which is why they will try to talk me out of it and present the situation as a choice between him and the life I'd be leaving behind, but if that's the choice then it will be easy. If marrying the child of an Irish servant means I won't have invitations here in London, then so be it. Perhaps it sounds naive and they may not believe I'm sure even after I've made my debut and been to a summer's worth of parties, but I'll have firmer ground to stand on."

"Well, if it's not marrying a lowly Irish country solicitor that will cast you out of society, surely being anworking woman _yourself_ will," Imogen said, smiling with something behind her eyes that seemed to Sybil very akin to pride.

Sybil laughed. "It's still but a dream, though."

"When we meet Miss Perry today she'll give an accounting of your progress and you can adjust your expectations accordingly. Though, I can't say that dampening expectations is something that has ever worked for me. Once I have my mind set on something, I must have it!"

"I'm your equal in that, I'm afraid."

"But you're much cleverer than me, so there's your advantage in this case," Imogen said.

"You're clever about different sorts of things."

Imogen smiled. "You're too good a friend Sybil, but I will accept your compliment as you're likely the only person in the world who would use the word clever in any way to refer to me."

Sybil watched Imogen as they walked from the side of her eyes. Yes, she was flighty and chatty and her interests—fashion and art and other things—were thought less serious for being considered areas of interest primarily for women, but Sybil knew that all of those things made Imogen special and strong and her own woman. She had a true and honest heart and her loyalty and support as a friend buoyed Sybil even now, when Sybil knew she'd need all the support she could get to get to where she wanted to go.

They walked silently for a few minutes, until Imogen spoke up again. "Well, I wish I had something positive to report on the experience of dining with Tom Bellasis, but we did not share much in the way of conversation. I think he thinks me a terrible bore."

"Do you mean _you_ have dined with him?"

Imogen nodded. "Our _families_ have dined together in any case, once at their home, and once at ours. My father had never met Tom's father before the garden party at Downton, though mama knew his mother in their youth, but he's become quite a favorite of both of my parents."

"Tom Bellasis or his father?"

"His father. Papa likes Tom fine, but I think mama thinks him a bit of an intellectual snob, which, in fairness to her, he rather is. At least, he didn't seem to have much patience for her or myself. Mama is inclined to dislike anyone who in her estimation can't carry on a suitable dinner conversation about subjects that she considers of general interest, like good literature or the weather, and you know how when she takes a dislike to a person, she gets rather set in her ways about it. I was sat next to him the second time we dined, but fared no better than she. I'm afraid he doesn't think me very clever."

"What makes you say that?" Sybil asked. "He seemed nice when we all spoke to him at the garden party."

"Oh, he _is_ nice," Imogen said, though Sybil noticed a note of hesitation and her voice. "I could never accuse him of being anything less than cordial, which is what makes it all the more disappointing. You see, he was only being polite—that was easy enough to see. At the garden party, with you and your Tom there, he seemed so much more unreserved, so much more . . . _stimulated_. I'd like to have brought that out in him myself because it was so becoming to see, but my interest in doing so did not suffice. And who could blame him, really. I don't have much to say that may be considered intellectually stimulating—"

"Oh, that's not true!" Sybil cut in.

"Please don't patronize me, darling. I couldn't take it coming from you."

"But I mean it," Sybil insisted. "Since you came back from America and we've talked about the vote and our future, you've given me so much to think about. I wouldn't have thought so before you, but just as you said on your first afternoon back, how we present ourselves _does_ have ramifications on how people see us, especially women, and there is power in the ability to affect those perceptions. That talk wasn't just about fashion, but also about psychology and human nature and how women survive and succeed in a world in which our appearance is given so much importance." Sybil paused to take a breath. "I used to believe that the things that I thought were frivolous too, then along came someone who for the first time in my life asked me about the things _I_ was interested in and took me seriously when I spoke about them. And I realized that the things I am interested in _are_ serious. So you see, when those around us don't value what we think or the things we think about, we learn not to value _ourselves_. Having Tom in my life helped me to see that . . . so if Mr. Bellasis can't see how lovely and brilliant you really are and how lucky he is that you want to be his friend, then he's the one with the problem."

Imogen looked over at Sybil, clearly moved by her friend's words. "Well, I won't argue with that, but then I have a problem too."

"What's that?"

"Even if I were the cleverest woman in the world, it wouldn't matter. Every time he looks at me, I get so tongue-tied I couldn't possibly say anything he doesn't think absolutely silly."

Sybil bit her lip in an effort to hold back a smile. "So you _do_ like him?" she asked tentatively, trying to be encouraging, but too much so, in case Imogen's current inclination was a fleeting one.

"I like him so much I do wonder whether that fact makes me as stupid as he likely thinks me. I don't generally have an interest in young men who have no interest in me. I never lacked for admirers in New York, so looking to anyone who did not like me never occurred to me before. And it's hardly sensible, really."

"May I ask what you like about him?" Sybil asked.

"Well, he's terribly handsome—and I do mean _terribly_. No one has any business being so nice looking. But he seems entirely unaware of it, which is rather charming. Oh, I suppose men don't think about such things so his attitude in that regard is likely not all that odd, but he seems to possess little in the way of arrogance or high self-regard, which is a rarity, you know, among our set. But that isn't even the point. He's so interesting and intelligent. He didn't mention it when we all spoke at the garden party but he works for the government and hopes to take a diplomatic post abroad. Isn't that just marvelous?! He didn't tell me directly, but I overheard—oh, bother, why pretend I was doing anything else but listening in! Anyway, he spoke to papa about his ambitions. Papa was very impressed and so was I with the fact that he wants to work even though he'll have his uncle's title and estate eventually. He doesn't even like shooting and sport and such things, but prefers the arts, as I do, and seems to appreciate the cultural treasures of the world. I tried to broach the subject of living abroad since I, too, love to travel and have spent time away from London, but the best I could think of in the moment was that the waters of the Mediterranean are very pleasant to swim in and he would do well to try it if he's ever there. It was perfectly dreadful, watching him realize that I couldn't hold a properly intelligent conversation. It was like light going out of his eyes. Such lovely eyes."

"Well, I wouldn't encourage you to pursue your interest in him if it causes you to be down on yourself, because you shouldn't be, but he obviously hasn't had a clear look into who you really are. If he did, he would have nothing but praise for you. So perhaps a different venue than a dinner party is required"

"Well, let's put away the subject because we're here!"

Sybil looked up and sure enough the crowd gathered at the Speakers' Corner was now visible in the distance. Sybil and Imogen stopped and each opened the small handbags they'd brought with them to pull out their "Votes for Women" sashes. Once in place, they looked at one another and smiled. Linking arms again, they quickly walked the rest of the way to where the anticipation over the event could be felt among the gathered audience, now that it was about to begin. It was a diverse lot. There weren't many (not obviously anyway) of Imogen and Sybil's class, but neither was the crowd made up entirely of workers either. A handful of women, smartly dressed, stood just to the side of the small stage, obviously the representatives of the National Union. On the other side four men seemingly all taking at each other at the same time. One of them, a bearded fellow slightly older seeming than the rest by virtue of his thick facial hair, kept looking over at the women, as if trying to size up the competition.

After a few minutes, the crowd quieted as an older man, in his seventies, perhaps, climbed up the steps with the use of a cane and turned to address the crowd.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all," he said with a professorial manner that immediately gave the event an air of gravitas and dignity that surprised Sybil. Given what she'd read about such open-air debates, she'd expected things to be much rowdier at the start. "My name is Cornelius Carter, professor _emeritus_ of history at King's College and friend to the worker and the woman," he said with a bow to each side of the stage. "We are here to listen to arguments on the urgency of the suffrage movement in so far as it may conflict or support the urgency of the socialist cause, which aims to lift the working classes above their current conditions . . . so they tell me."

A murmur of laughter came over the crowd.

"No editorializing," one of the young men on the side of the stage shouted out. "We do well explaining our own cause with no help from you!"

"Oh very well," the older man said. "Let's get on with it. Mr. Smith, Miss Horton, if you please." He gestured for each side to bring forth its debater. So the bearded man came up for the socialists and a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a plainly colored but well-tailored gray suit and a humorless, determined expression came up for the suffragists. Then, Mr. Carter continued, "First each side will present an introduction to why their cause should take precedence in our efforts for change. Then one side will have the opportunity to question the other's premise. The other will respond, then ask its own question and so on and so forth until we've had our fill. I was prepared to have the ladies go first but was immediately asked by the same not to offer any sort of preferential treatment so there we are."

Mr. Carter looked over to the woman, Miss Horton, one more time, as if asking if she'd changed her mind about wanting to defer the first chance to speak. She responded by rolling her eyes, causing both Imogen and Sybil to giggle. The moderator turned to the bearded man, who wasted no time.

After clearing his throat rather dramatically, he began, "At the moment, there appears to be something of a lull in the militant suffragist movement; and, therefore, before our blood is once more made to creep by the harrowing stories of struggle and martyrdoms, perhaps neither time nor labour will be wasted in briefly studying the agitation for Woman's Suffrage from the stand-point of Socialist philosophy.

"It may be taken for granted that the mere attainment of the power to register a vote is not in itself the end aimed at, although there would seem to be a few deluded individuals who have conceived the brilliant idea that the vote, per se, is all that is necessary for the ushering in of the millennium, or some other equally vague Utopia. However, a glance through the columns of such periodicals as The Vote or Votes for Women will show that the ultimate object on which the efforts of the Suffragists are concentrated is, according to the writers in these literary productions, the total emancipation of women from the thraldom of the male sex. The Woman's Suffrage movement is, in effect, a struggle between the sexes, and is therefore more or less anarchical in character.

"Now while I have no objection to propertied women squabbling with their male relatives and friends, or indulging in the intellectual pastime of mobbing Mr. Asquith or knocking off inoffensive policemen's helmets (any more than I object to the Liberal and Tory parties playfully fighting with one another over the Budget or the Lord's Veto), yet it becomes altogether another story when it is seen that a section of the working class (and a very large and important section) is being beguiled into believing that the necessity of agitating for the vote is of the utmost importance. What is of the utmost importance is that the working-class women, inside and outside the various suffrage societies, whose time, money and sympathy are asked for (and often obtained) by the leaders and organisers of these societies, should be in a position to understand the real facts of the case.

"During the French Revolution the proletariat of France were used unsparingly by the French bourgeoisie to help overthrow the remnants of feudalism and then, when that object was attained, were themselves thrown contemptuously aside by their bourgeois compatriots. A very similar thing is happening in the present movement for Women's Suffrage. The women of the working class are being used for the purpose of obtaining a limited suffrage in the interests of propertied women, and when that is accomplished there is not one iota of doubt that they will be thrown on one side with the same contumely that was meted out of their French fellow-victims something over a century ago.

"Women of the working class are led to believe that the possession of the franchise (even when it is intended that they should possess it) will enable them – by means of Parliamentary representation – to pass such measures of reform as will ameliorate in no small degree their present economic position. We should like to hear what measures of reform these may be."

There was a smattering of applause as the man finished his speech. His words shook Sybil—particularly when he referenced "propertied women squabbling with their male relatives and friends." Sybil's mind had immediately gone to Mary, and the fight that her mother and grandmother had sought to engage in for Mary, not Matthew, to inherit Downton. She had thought that the law had done Mary (and Edith and herself) terribly wrong in insisting that only a male could take the seat her father filled as earl of Gratham, but what of Daisy or Anna or Mrs. Hughes? Even Gwen, who, while upwardly mobile, was still marked by obstacles and challenges that Sybil could not conceive of from her more comfortable perch? Would _their_ lives have fundamentally changed if an heiress had been allowed to take Downton instead of an heir? What did it matter to them if ladies were allowed to inherit when they'd still be working every waking hour and for wages that were hardly enough to guarantee professional advancement?

Sybil had believed that with the power of the vote, women like herself and her sisters would have sought to change the laws that currently elevated the rights of noble sons over those of noble daughters, but she'd not taken the time to consider what change would affect the lives of working women and whether _that_ change, whatever it would be, perhaps, truly was more urgent.

Sybil turned to look at Imogen, whose cheeks were pink, both from the cold and from an excitement that was visible in her eyes. "Oh, I do hope she has much to say to _that_ ," Imogen said, not looking at Sybil, but turning her eyes to the woman on the stage, who was ready to begin her arguments. "He made some fine points, for our lives are different from those of shop girls and the like, but he thinks us perfectly incapable of empathy! And surely, no sensible woman could be talked into trusting men of any class to elevate her station. I dare say the lines separate women of separate classes are far more easily overcome than millennia of men looking out only for themselves!"

If she could have willed Tom Bellasis to appear in that moment, Sybil was certain that he'd have instantly fallen quite in love with Imogen Wilkes.

"I'd thank Mr. Smith for all of his words," Miss Horton began, "but given that there were so many, I'd be here for the greater part of this week."

Mr. Smith stiffened at her words and the accompanying laughter from the women in the audience. "Are your arguments so weak that you must resort to personal attacks?"

Miss Horton roller her eyes. "Oh, Mr. Smith, I'm just having a little fun with you. But, you're right, I shouldn't veer from our present subject. I'll take the opportunity now to teach Mr. Smith and those present who question our most urgent, most important premise about why women must be empowered to dictate their own destinies. Simply put, ladies, when in our history have we done well by relying on men to see to our interests? Mr. Smith and his socialist friends would divide us by class and suggests that men of the lower classes have more in common with and better understand the travails that afflict our working sisters, and though I stipulate that he does not err entirely in stating this particular fact, his implication that by extension working men are more _willing_ to work to ensure the advancement of their mothers and sisters and daughters, well _that_ is not only an insult to womankind and a dismissal of our greater capacity for empathy—a trait that men have long sought to use against us as proof of weakness of character though it offers proof only of our emotional strength—but an invitation to ignore the many ways in which working men have ignored the needs of women for far too many years to count."

Miss Horton paused for a moment as the women in the crowd, including Sybil and Imogen, began to applaud.

"Who but _women_ can understand the plight of our sisters?" she continued "It is _our_ voices that have been missing from government far too long. From the leadership of every party, from the running of committees, in some cases from the running of our own homes! Mr. Smith is not wrong in suggesting that reforms greater than the vote are necessary to improve the lives of women in the worst of conditions, but without the vote how will there be a guarantee that their voices will be lifted up at all? The vote, is not, as Mr. Smith suggests, a luxury that middle class women like myself may look upon like a new hat or a new frock, it is a _right_! A right denied us too long."

More applause followed, along with some "Hear, hears!" though there was some heckling as well. ("So let's hear those voices then!" "What good ideas have you got!" "Ain't nothing but talk—what does she know of work!") And indeed, as Mr. Smith offered his response and Miss Horton answered again and back and forth they went, the crowd got rowdier, yelling and clapping by turns. Sybil and Imogen had remained linked by their arms, in an effort not to be separated in the movement of the maddening crowd, but Sybil didn't feel unsafe, surrounded as she and Imogen were by other women similarly clad in sashes and other tokens of support of their cause. If anything, she felt exhilarated and alive in a way she hadn't yet experienced.

Kissing Tom, talking with him about politics and the like, and learning about medicine stirred her passions in new and exciting ways, but this was altogether different. She felt truly independent and capable of being her own person, as if what she'd said to Imogen earlier about choosing her own path over her parents' objections wasn't just talk but something she actually had the courage to do—something that, indeed, she was now rather looking forward to doing. This was only the first political event she'd ever attended, but she knew already that it would be the first of many.

More than an hour into the debate, which showed no hint of coming to its close, in the midst of everything, the sky began to darken and Sybil looked up to see that the clouds, already heavy with snow, had grown more menacing considerably in the last few minutes. Leaning over to Imogen, she said, "Do you suppose it's very late? I've lost track of time but it seems to be getting rather dark."

Imogen looked up. "I think it's only the weather that's taken a turn, but perhaps we ought to go. I'd hate for you to be late to meet Miss Perry. When did she say she'd be there?"

"Three o'clock," Sybil answered.

Imogen dug out a man's pocket watch out of her bag. Sybil raised her eyebrows. "It's papa's," Imogen said with a smile, answering Sybil's unspoken question. "I like to carry it for luck and because I don't find wristwatches particularly flattering, personally, my wrists being rather fleshy. I've thought about asking my dressmaker to sew a pocket for it in my dresses. It could be the latest trend, don't you think?"

Sybil laughed. "You know I defer to you on all such questions."

Imogen smiled, opened the watch and saw that it was almost 2:30. "Golly, have we really been here an hour and a half! I've been so enthralled, but not even the best parties can last forever. We should go."

Sybil nodded and the two began working their way out of the crowd. As they'd been in the right middle of it, this proved a much more difficult task than they had anticipated. With each polite push forward, another less than polite push sent them back to where they were. Finally, Sybil had had enough of politeness and moved ahead past Imogen using her elbows and pushing with her shoulders, raising the ire of those around her but only answering back, "So sorry!" after they'd made way for her and her friend. They were nearly out when they came upon a particularly burly man who would not budge no matter how nicely they asked nor, after that tactic failed, how hard they shoved.

"Sir," Imogen said, approaching him carefully, for he did look rather menacing, "We do hate to trouble you, but you see my friend has an appointment and it really wouldn't do at all if we're late."

The man looked both of the young women up and down and said, gruffly and sarcastically, "Are you having tea with their majesties at Buckingham Palace?"

Sybil rolled her eyes and was about to say something out of turn when Imogen stepped forward and leaned in as if to say something to the man in confidence. "Actually, sir—"

Sybil wasn't sure what Imogen could say, if anything, to get the man to move out of their way, so before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and slammed her foot on his. He stepped back and shouted, "BLOODY HELL!"

"Run!" Sybil said, grabbing Imogen by the arm and finally pushing past the man (and the amused and shocked people around him) now that he was no longer sure on his feet. They didn't stop until they were about fifty yards or so away. They were both thoroughly out of breath but the elation coursing through Sybil just then was such that she felt she could have run across the whole park—possibly across the whole city, the whole country, across the Irish Sea to boot, just to tell Tom that she was ready for life as they were meant to lead it to begin.

She looked behind them and saw that nobody had come after them. The crowd looked like it had barely stirred, but even from a distance Sybil could see those around it still jostling this way and that.

"Oh, darling," Imogen said after she'd finally caught her breath. "I am not built for strenuous exercise, but, my, that was thrilling!"

Sybil laughed. "I have no idea what came over me."

"Well, whatever it was, I am glad for it for I had no real idea what I was going to say to the man."

Realizing that her hat was askew and her hair was falling out of its bun, Sybil said, "I do wish I looked more presentable to meet Miss Perry, but I wouldn't have missed that for the world."

Imogen adjusted her hat and coat. "Me neither, darling, but who could look better than we do!? We look like women with somewhere to go and something to do, and there is no look or attitude that's better."

Sybil grinned, adjusted her own hat and jutted out her chin. "How perfectly right you are!"

So as not to risk being late by the walk south to Belgravia from the park, they walked instead toward the street to hail a taxi. As she approached the busy street and threw her hand in the air, Sybil knew she still hadn't lived a fraction of what she was going to and the thought thrilled her to her core.

She felt like the world was at her feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Speakers corner in Hyde Park is a real thing, though whether a debate like this was ever held there, I have no idea. The conflict that I tried to present between the socialists and the suffragists is one that existed at the time. Socialists believed that the upper class and middle class women who were part of the movement for the women's vote didn't actually care about the plight of working class women. There's an oblique reference to this rift on the show in the scene in which Tom touches Sybil's waist. Sybil points out that the women's movement took a step back when the war started, and Tom says, "your lot did, but Sylvia Pankhurst was all for fighting on." What he means is that rich women agreed to stop fighting for the vote during the war, but the more militant wing of the movement wanted to continue. Emmeline Pankhurst, Sylvia's mother and a suffragist in her own right, was a supporter of the war, and she ordered militantism in her group (The Women's Social and Political Union) to stop once war was declared. She also saw the movement as apolitical, and as a political conservative, Emmeline was resistant to the socialist strain of the movement. Sylvia, on the other hand, was an anti-war socialist and broke away from her mother's group because she hated its pro-war stance. Her new group even hid conscientious objectors from police. So in that moment, Tom is telling Sybil that there was more than one kind of suffragist (i.e. not just the rich ones, like her). The scene at Speakers Corner is intended to open Sybil's eyes to that same distinction, but for her to see it on her own and not merely because Tom has pointed it out.
> 
> The words that Mr. Smith speaks are taken from a much longer article in a socialist newspaper (the Mr. Asquith he references is the prime minister of the day). The group that represents the women in the debate was also a real group. I don't know much of its political inclinations, but I chose it because it was known to have a more middle class membership. The words Miss Horton speaks were written by me.


	45. Tea with Miss Perry, Dinner with Mr. Bellasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picking up where we left off . . .

It didn't take Sybil and Imogen long to arrive at the teahouse where they were to meet Miss Perry. As a matter of fact, because they'd taken a taxi, they even arrived a few minutes early and before Miss Perry herself. Sybil took the additional time to go to the powder room to re-arrange her hair and hat and straighten out her skirt so she looked marginally more presentable than she had just after running away from the debate at the Speakers Corner. Once she was feeling more settled, Sybil rejoined Imogen at table and ordered tea service with a plate of scones and sandwiches.

Just before the tea arrived, Imogen spoke up, "Well, I can't imagine that it'll be long now before Miss Perry arrives, so if you don't mind, darling, I'll be along."

"You mean you're not staying?" Sybil asked.

"I thought you might like to be alone so as to really focus your conversation on your studies without having to worry about me. Besides, we'll have plenty of time tomorrow for you to tell me all about it when your family comes to dinner."

"Well, you certainly don't have to go on my account, but I suppose I'd like to get right down to it with her and wouldn't want you to feel excluded in any way."

"Not excluded so much as out of my depth."

Sybil smiled at seeing Imogen's intellectual insecurities pop up again. "Miss Perry would be the first to tell you that a woman can do anything she puts her mind to—even learning things she never thought possible. I'm a perfect example of that. Without her encouragement and Tom's, I would never have gotten even this far."

"I won't disagree with that lovely sentiment, but I do feel my energies and time are best focused elsewhere."

"All right," Sybil said, "I won't keep you."

"Do tell me all about it, though. I am quite anxious for you to complete your studies so I may tell everyone I know I am friends with a woman doctor!"

"It'll be a while yet, I'm afraid," Sybil said.

Just then, the bell at the door of the teashop rang to alert of the entrance of another customer. Both Imogen and Sybil looked up, and Sybil grinned and stood at the sight of her former governess. She was clearly older, with more determined wrinkles around her eyes as she smiled on seeing them, but Miss Elizabeth Perry still looked very much like herself. Her brown hair was arranged in a simple but becoming style around the back of her head and her long gray coat, though simple, demonstrated just how well she'd done for herself.

Sybil remembered immediately upon seeing her that Miss Perry was always one for simplicity over ostentation and was often at loggerheads with Sybil's nanny over how Sybil should dress, latter preferring overly frilly styles that were not only confining, but needlessly fancy for a girl who loved nothing better than running around and climbing things. The nanny, of course, would haughtily suggest to Miss Perry that if Sybil hadn't learned how to be still and quiet like she was supposed to, then perhaps Miss Perry was teaching her all the wrong things. Miss Perry would only roll her eyes at the suggestion that a noble girl's education began and ended with how to sit properly.

All of these memories swirled through Sybil's mind as she watched Miss Perry approach. It was true that without Miss Perry's support she'd not have made so much progress toward her goal. What may have been less obvious, but was still no less true was that without Miss Perry's presence during Sybil's early formative years, the current fire in her belly for knowledge and a chance to prove herself might never have been sparked. Sybil owed her as much for those first lessons, which planted the seed, as she did for the current ones, which were seeing that seed finally blossom.

When Miss Perry reached the table, both Imogen and Sybil were standing, and it was Imogen who spoke up first.

"Oh, Miss Perry! How wonderful to see you again! I suppose you don't remember me, but I'm Imogen Wilkes. I was Sybil's dear friend back when you were her governess—that is to say, she was _my_ dear friend, until my father, mother and I moved to New York."

Miss Perry smiled warmly. "Of course, I remember you Miss Wilkes. Yours is a disposition not easily forgotten. It's quite lovely to see you again."

Imogen looked at Sybil and blushed. "Golly, I dare say that's not something mama would be pleased about."

"You can tell her I mean it as a compliment," Miss Perry said.

"Well, I'll be off so you two may get down to business," Imogen said. She leaned over to Sybil and placed a kiss on her cheek. "Until tomorrow, darling."

"Thank you so much for taking me today," Sybil said in response. "It was thrilling."

Imogen smiled, and with another wave to both women, she was gone.

Miss Perry and Sybil turned toward one another and both laughed. "She hasn't changed a bit," Miss Perry said.

"No," Sybil said, "at least not in any fundamental ways."

"And how are you, milady?" Miss Perry asked, stepping to Sybil and taking her hands. "Even though we've been in touch these last three months, a part of me still imagined you as the young girl I left behind. I underestimated just how beautiful you'd turn out."

Sybil blushed slightly and smiled. "You look very well, too. Thank you so much for coming. I know I'm imposing on you by asking for your help."

"Nonsense, I only wish all my former pupils grew up so ambitious as you have."

"Shall we sit?" Sybil said motioning to the table.

"May I ask what thrilling thing you and Miss Wilkes were doing before you came to meet me?" Miss Perry asked as she sat down and served herself some tea.

"We went to a debate in Hyde Park between the Socialist Party and women advocating for the vote," Sybil answered. "It was really wonderful to see so many who support the cause up close, and the political discussion really was quite illuminating. The socialists made some very strong points that the women would do well to look to. I do support the vote, but I'm afraid I've not been to such an event before. There are rallies in Ripon but nothing near Downton, and my parents wouldn't allow me to attend such a thing anyway."

"I wouldn't think so, though I likewise wouldn't think that their permission or lack of it would deter you, if you're anything like I remember."

Sybil smiled. "I'm trying to pick my battles."

Recognition came over Miss Perry's face. "They don't approve of your studies."

Sybil shook her head. "They've decided to humor me for the time being. I believe they believe I'll lose interest or give up or . . . fail."

"Do you believe you will lose interest or give up or fail?"

"I know I won't lose interest. I suppose sheer stubbornness will keep me from giving up. The last is an open question."

"Well, don't think of success or failure as an either-or question, but rather a spectrum, and as long as you don't give up, you won't fail."

"What do you mean?" Sybil asked.

Miss Perry took a sip of her tea, then smiled again. "You may think of success or failure as the question of whether or not you become a doctor, but if you do look at it that way, then everyday you are not a doctor feels like a failure. If, however, you think of it as a series of steps toward . . ." Miss Perry trailed off, then seemed to change course. "Why _do_ you want to be a doctor, milady?"

The question gave Sybil pause. "I—I . . . well, I'd like to help people."

"Is that the only reason? Because there are many ways to help others that don't involve attending a medical college and becoming a doctor."

Sybil took a deep breath and looked down to collect her thoughts. "I do want to help people . . . I used to think that's what I was doing when I went to visit the borstal charity that I patronize in Ripon, but the more I would contemplate it, the more giving away old dresses and serving tea to the less fortunate didn't really feel like help at all. It was only helping them bare the circumstances, not doing anything to _change_ them. Selfishly speaking, it wasn't all that fulfilling for me. I do enjoy the time I spend with people there, but the work wasn't challenging me in any way. It didn't ask anything of me that wasn't easy to give up."

"And you think studying medicine will do that?"

"Certainly, the attainment of a medical degree would challenge me unlike anything I've ever done, but it will also enable me to help in a way that's not just satisfying for me, but meaningful for the people I help."

Miss Perry smiled. "But patching someone up after a fall or when they catch cold may not change their circumstances."

"But I think it will!" Sybil insisted. "If medicine is practiced the way I intend."

"And how is that?"

"A tenant on the estate fell ill recently, and Dr. Clarkson, the village doctor, was prepared to let him die—well, that's not fair of me to say, but he was afraid to attempt a new treatment because he did not know it well. But my cousin Isobel, whose husband was a doctor, insisted and the man's life was saved. If he'd died, he'd have left a widow behind and their children, and I dare say that the woman would have accepted the outcome as many of her lot accept that certain things are out of their control because they don't have the means to control more of their lives than they do. If the same illness had affected my father or someone else in my family, we'd have found the best doctor in England to treat him, and spared no expense in doing so." Sybil stopped here to take a breath before staring again, "My parents are the patrons of the Downton hospital, and it is a fine facility thanks to their generosity, but the fact is neither they nor anyone on the board expect Dr. Clarkson to save, and therefore _change_ lives with his treatment. They expect him to him to help his patients manage as best they can, which is precisely what I do for in my charity work. I help make things bearable, but I don't affect any real change."

Miss Perry smiled. "So tie it all together for me."

Sybil took a deep breath and set her shoulders back confidently. "I want to be a doctor with the kind of skills that the richest among us would pay anything for . . . but I'll only serve the poor, so that they do not live under the assumption that the care they receive is only as good as what they, with their meager means, can afford."

Miss Perry smiled widely, which made Sybil feel proud.

"Was there a reason you asked that particular question, the why?" Sybil asked.

Miss Perry nodded. "It's one you'll face often as you move along, in particular when you apply to the college. I believe your position will make people question your motives, but you have conviction and that comes through easily."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do," Miss Perry replied. "Would that all doctors applied the practice of medicine as you intend to."

"If I manage it," Sybil said, trying to temper her expectations.

"I think you'll manage to help people, and change their lives—that should be your stated goal," Miss Perry said, "more so than merely becoming a doctor."

"Merely? You make it sound as if it's easy to do."

"Oh, don't mistake me. I do think it will be very hard, especially for you for a number of reasons having to do with what's usually expected of someone like you. All I mean is, don't stake yourself to the _task_ of becoming a doctor. That's a means to achieve your end—a rather difficult one, mind—but still just that. There are other ways to achieve your ultimate goal if this particular path to it closes itself off to you."

Sybil's brow furrowed. Miss Perry had always been a very frank person, even when Sybil was a child, something that Sybil appreciated. But she wondered now if her words, in which Sybil could only hear an effort to tamp down her expectations, were meant to reveal a muted skepticism about Sybil's ability to make it as far as she was hoping to go.

Noticing the change in Sybil's expression, Miss Perry spoke again. "I don't mean to sound as if I'm discouraging you, milady. It makes me very proud that a former pupil of mine has such ambition. I mean only to say that what you wish to do with your life—that is, to help people—offers a broad range of opportunity as well as the fulfillment you seek that your current charity work does not offer. In light of that, you should be aware that the singularity of your current purpose, while helpful in guiding your studies, narrows that range somewhat. Be aware of _all_ that is available to you, and be mindful of what you may take from the journey, not merely the end result, and you'll meet with success no matter what happens."

Sybil's expression softened. "Thank you for that."

"Thank _you_. I do find it all very inspiring." Miss Perry smiled for a moment, then narrowed her eyes slightly. "May I ask something on another matter, though still related to what you wish to do."

Sybil nodded. "Of course. Anything."

"Do you wish to marry, milady?"

Sybil's mind immediately went to Tom, and she eagerly offered her answer before giving herself the chance to think about what Miss Perry was really asking. "Oh, yes! Very much so."

"You would do well to keep in mind what your future husband may expect of you, then," Miss Perry said. "There is a greater need to compromise with a spouse's expectations, that those of parents."

Sybil smiled. "That's good advice, as well, but it won't be problem for me."

Miss Perry's eyebrows shot up. "Do you have a young man in mind already? You're not even out!"

Sybil couldn't stop the slight blush that came over her cheeks. "I do, as it happens. He's a close family friend, and very supportive of my goals—I'd never have made it even this far without him."

"That's quite interesting. I wouldn't think many men of your station capable of accepting a working wife."

Sybil smile. "He's not exactly a man of _my_ station."

Miss Perry laughed. "Well, I shall wish you luck in that endeavor as well."

"Thank you," Sybil said. "It really does mean quite a lot that I can count on your help." After a pause, Sybil said, "You did say you wanted to review my progress in my lesson plan. Shall we get on with it before you must go back?"

"Yes! I'm sorry for veering us so off course, and I have something exciting to share in that regard."

Sybil's eyes lit up. "Is that so?"

Miss Perry reached for her handbag and pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sybil. "This is something of an early Christmas present."

"What is it?"

"Open it!" Miss Perry said nodding encouragingly.

Sybil pulled apart the envelope and took out a packet of several sheets of paper. She leafed through them and saw that each contained a series of questions and space for their answers. Looking back at the first page, she saw the heading "Arithmetic" and read the first question.

_Reduce 184800/1180410 to its lowest terms. What is a prime number? When are two numbers said to be prime to each other? Reduce the numerator and the denominator of the above fraction to their prime factors._

"Have you formulated a test for me?" Sybil asked, looking up.

Miss Perry laughed. "This isn't just a test, milady. This is _the_ test."

Sybil looked down at the paper confused, then leafed through it again, reading aloud the headings on each page, "Scientific Vocabulary, Logical Reasoning, Premedical Information." That last gave her pause. "Premedical informa—wait! Is this what I think it is?"

Miss Perry grinned and nodded. "It's a copy of an old entrance exam. The questions vary from year to year, but the topics are generally the same, which gives us an important guide as to how to direct your lessons, once you've reached an appropriate level of general knowledge."

Looking back at the first page, Sybil's smile grew wider, "This first one . . . I can't solve it off the top of my head—"

"No one could, milady," Miss Perry said, laughing.

"No, but I mean, I know how to arrive at the answer," Sybil said. She felt her heart begin to race with excitement. Looking down the page quickly, she added, "I can solve all of these!"

"Arithmetic is a strong suit of yours, which is fortunate, because it will help when we move on to plane geometry and algebra, both of which you'll need to master. As you can see they have their own sections on the test."

"There's only one page for the premedical questions, though," Sybil said. "I'd have thought that would be the bulk of it."

"No, they expect you to learn medicine as they see fit, so you don't have to know all that much beyond general principles of human biology and chemistry. What the test is supposed to measure is your aptitude for _learning_ —that you have the capacity to take in the knowledge that they will give you. That's a wonderful approach to ensuring you are ready."

Sybil took a deep breath. If she didn't think she'd look so silly, she would have hugged the test to her chest. Holding it in her hands now, her future suddenly felt attainable—like something _real_ that she was preparing for, not merely a distant daydream. "How did you manage to get it?" Sybil asked Miss Perry, after a moment.

"I was out near the school several weeks ago and, being so close by, decided to walk to the offices to see if I could find some information to give you on admission. The secretary I met said it's not uncommon for prospective students to ask for copies of old tests, so I asked for one for you. I don't know that it's something many people take advantage of, but I thought, given the circuitous route your education has taken, it would be of particular help to you."

"Thank you so much!" Sybil looked down on the pages again and for a moment thought she might cry she was so happy. She knew that if she were to sit for the test tomorrow, she'd likely fail miserably, but for now, the fact that she could picture herself sitting for it at all was happiness enough.

* * *

It was more than an hour later, when Sybil finally set off for Grantham House again.

When she arrived at the house, the family's regular teatime had come and gone, and as she came in, Edith warned her that her mother had made note of her long absence. Sybil didn't give that much thought, however. Her mind was too full of the plans that she and Miss Perry had made for the coming months regarding her studies to think about much else as she readied for dinner. She'd had just enough time to bathe and change with Anna's help. Such was her rush, in fact, that she'd completely forgotten who the dinner guests were meant to be that night. It wasn't until she walked into the drawing room and saw her mother smiling brightly as she talked with Tom Bellasis and his mother, Anne, that it all came back to her.

Sybil walked in as quietly as she could and made a beeline for Edith, but she wasn't halfway to her sister when Cora called her over.

Sybil turned and saw an expectant look on her mother's face, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. Sybil threw a glance back at Edith, who could only smirk in response, and proceeded to where her mother and the two guests were sitting. Tom Bellasis stood as she approached.

"Hello, Mrs. Bellasis, Mr. Bellasis."

"It's so lovely to see you again, my dear," Anne Bellasis said with a warm smile. "We thought it might be June before we'd enjoy the company of the Crawleys again, but are only to happy to have you here in town."

"Well, this will be a big June for us," Cora replied, "with Sybil's presentation. The experience of her sisters has taught us that it's never too early to start preparing."

Anne smiled. "I'd have liked to have a daughter, but I feel lucky not to have to bother with the worries of it. Boys are easier, but a handful in their own right." She winked at her son, who smiled in response.

"Tom has an interest in politics, just as you do, darling," Cora said to Sybil. "Did you know that?"

"I did," Sybil replied. "We had a chance to speak of that at the garden party, and I found out as much."

Bellasis smiled at Sybil and looked back at Cora. "Lady Sybil and Miss Wilkes were considering making me a member of their . . . what did you call it, 'revolutionary club'?" Though I never did get an answer as to whether I'd made the cut."

"I can only imagine that you did," Cora said.

"Miss Wilkes is a lovely girl," Anne said, "though Tom tells me she's a bit flighty."

"He doesn't know her very well," Sybil said.

"Well, she's certainly not so serious as you, my dear," Cora said.

"You obviously don't either," Sybil said to her mother, her tone a hair more stern than it had been just a moment ago. "And if it's all the same, I'd just as soon not continue any conversation about a person not here to speak up for herself."

Bellasis smiled in spite of himself. "She has a fine defender in you, in any case. If your opinion of her is so high, then surely she is a person worth knowing."

Cora smiled at his compliment and, hoping to further ease the momentary tension, said, "I've just been telling Tom here that you have been studying medicine of late."

"Medicine is an area of special interest for us," Anne said. "My brother-in-law, Lord Goring, is patron of The Royal Free Hospital. As his heir, Tom will take over the role when he takes the title."

"What an interesting coincidence," Cora said pointedly.

"Not that much of a coincidence, mama. All hospitals have patrons. You and papa have that role at Downton Hospital. I should think every peer in the country has some connection to medicine." Sybil turned back to Anne and Bellasis and added, "Not that I mean to downplay Lord Goring's interest, though I certainly hope it extends so far as to ensuring that the patients there receive the best care possible."

Anne smiled. "The very best care, that's certain, and he takes some pride in the school as well. His mother had a great interest in women's education. Tom, here, hasn't taken as keen an interest in it, but I'm sure he would if his wife did—at least, she'd have the chance to have a say in how it's run."

"Actually, now that you mention it," Sybil said, " _I_ have a particular interest in the school," Sybil said. "My goal is to work as a doctor."

Cora's smile tightened, while Anne's eyes widened. "Oh my," Anne said, "that's quite ambitious of you."

"Well, she's looking into the subject anyway," Cora said.

Sybil would have spoken up again, but the announcement was made just then that dinner was served, and the party proceeded into the Grantham House dining room without giving her a chance to say anything else.

Sybil was not surprised to find herself at the end of the table, sitting next to Bellasis. Given her mother's lack of subtlety in the drawing room as they waited for dinner, this was to be expected. He smiled pleasantly at her as they took their seats, but didn't say much to her through the first course. If he was as keen on her as her mother was keen on Sybil having an interest in him, Sybil appreciated, at least, the fact that he wasn't trying to smother her. He had a nice manner about him and warm eyes. She'd thought so when she first saw him at the garden party, but she'd felt less nervous then, with Imogen and Tom there and when her mother's agenda wasn't dictating the course of the evening. If Sybil hadn't been so determined not to send the wrong signal or give encouragement of the wrong kind, she would have thought Bellasis a fine candidate for her friendship and would have happily engaged him in conversation. As it was, she left it up to him whether they'd speak at all.

It wasn't until the soup course came that he said anything. He spoke to her with practiced ease, as if continuing an ongoing conversation between two old friends.

"You've set quite a goal for yourself," he said. "I have several friends from my Oxford days who couldn't manage the practice of medicine."

Sybil bristled. "So if an Oxford man can't do it, then surely I should just give up?"

"No, no, I . . . I'm sorry I didn't mean to make light of it. The men I'm referring to were never very disciplined to begin with. I doubt the same is true of you."

"No, I'm sorry," Sybil said, embarrassed that she'd snapped at him. "You didn't deserve that. I am jealous of your education, but then I am a woman. As such I was never given a chance at real study so I've now taken it upon myself. My mother thinks it a fool's errand, and she's the real target of my sarcasm. In any case, you should know that my ambition has to do with me and me alone. It isn't rooted in a desire to qualify myself to be the wife of a doctor . . . or of a hospital's patron."

He looked down at his plate suppressing a smile. "So you don't plan to marry . . . You plan to have a career instead?" He asked.

This time it was Sybil's turn to smirk. "I didn't say that."

"Haven't you been warned that few men are likely to accept a wife who wishes to work outside the home?"

Sybil nodded her head, but smiled, recognizing a teasing tone in his voice. "Would you deny your wife if she possessed the desire? You said when we met that you believe in the cause of women's suffrage. Is that where your support for us begins and ends? I find that disappointing."

He smiled. "Am I out of the club, then?"

" _I_ should think so, but I'll leave the decision to Imogen. I must say, though, that if you are interested in a wife whose company you find intellectually stimulating, you narrow the pool considerably by also insisting that her intellect may be used only to amuse _you_ and not for some greater purpose."

He laughed. "Now, I didn't say that, did I?"

Sybil arched an eyebrow. "No?"

Mr. Bellasis shook his head. "I don't suppose I'd mind terribly much if my wife wanted a career or sought extensive interests outside our household. I only meant to point out that just as you say there are few women who are both clever _and_ unmotivated, there are few men who'd accept a working wife."

"Well, _I_ won't have trouble with that, I'm quite sure, but I appreciate your concern."

Sybil watched him as Bellasis laughed to himself.

For the rest of the meal they engaged in conversation with the rest of the table, but the subject of Sybil's studies did not come up again between them until after dinner was over, and both the men and the women had passed through to the parlor. Sybil had sat herself in a corner of the room with a book and was merely waiting until a reasonable amount of time had elapsed before she could excuse herself. Cora left her alone with the hope that Bellasis would seek her out while she was alone. Sure enough, once the men had joined the women, he did just that.

"Your mother mentioned that the family is in London for the rest of the week," he said quietly as he approached.

Sybil put her book down and nodded.

He sat down, leaving enough space between them that allowed Sybil to assume he sought to speak with her privately, but not _intimately_ , which she was glad for. "I wonder if I may have your company for an afternoon before you go," he said.

Before she answered, Sybil looked around to see where everyone else in the room was in relation to them. Her eyes met her mother's for a moment, but Cora immediately looked away with a smile that Sybil did not like. Still, Cora was too far away to hear the next words out of Sybil's mouth.

"Mr. Bellasis, I do beg you pardon if I've given the impression that—"

"Lady Sybil," he said, cutting her off gently, "believe it or not, I am ignorant neither of our mothers' intensions, nor of your disinterest in me . . . in a romantic sense, but even so I'd like to help you and prove that my interest in women's empowerment is not merely only a passing one."

This last was said with a chuckle, which Sybil wondered about. "Help me? How so?"

"My uncle is the patron of The Royal Free Hospital."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "That was mentioned."

He smiled. "What I mean to say is, I could ask him to arrange a tour of the school . . . allow you the chance to attend the lecture, perhaps. It would help give you a sense of the place and help you see if it's where you'd really like to be."

Sybil's face had brightened as he spoke. "You—you could do that?"

He nodded.

Sybil bit her lip and looked down. She was eager to go, but equally eager not to do so at his expense, despite his assurance that he had no expectations of her.

Noticing her hesitation, he added, "In the interest of friendship only, I assure you."

Sybil sighed. "It's just that—"

Bellasis scratched his forehead. "Lady Sybil, I can see that your heart is spoken for. Perhaps if . . ."

Sybil tried to look into his eyes, but he turned away for a moment.

"Never mind," he said with a sigh. "I have no intension of embarrassing you or making a fool of myself by disregarding that obvious fact."

His words caught Sybil a bit by surprise. "Obvious?"

Bellasis smiled to himself as if he'd given himself away and thought about the moment he had witnessed between Sybil and the young man she'd introduced him to at her family's garden party. They'd held hands and looked at one another like two people who never wanted to be looking anywhere else but at each other. But he didn't want admit he'd caught them in an intimate moment. Instead, he said, "You are so certain of your future husband's support of your desire to be a doctor, that I take that to signify you've found him already."

Sybil smiled slightly thinking of Tom Branson and immediately looked around to see if anyone had heard Bellasis. He followed her eyes as she did so and said, "Don't worry, I never break a confidence. But what say you about the tour and the lecture."

"It's a wonderfully kind offer, and I'd love nothing more, it's just . . ."

"How about if I excuse myself so you may go alone."

Sybil smiled. "I didn't mean that. I just don't want to feel like I'm taking advantage."

"I assure you that you are not, but if you like, think of it as a favor that you may repay me at some point in the future."

"What favor could I possibly do for you?"

He smiled. "If we really are going to be friends, then I am confident one will reveal itself in time."

Sybil thought for a moment, so he pressed, "What do you say, then?

"I'd love to, and I'd love to have the company of a friend."

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

Sybil laughed. "I'm talking about you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

Sybil nodded. "It's just a friends' outing. There's nothing wrong with that."

"All right, then. I'll arrange it for tomorrow afternoon, if that suits you."

"It suits me perfectly."

Not too long after, the Bellasis family said their goodbyes and left. Sybil was among the first in the family to retire, but the fact that she'd spent most of her time after dinner speaking with Bellasis didn't escape her mother or Mary. The latter came into Sybil's room later that night as Sybil sat in bed writing in her diary.

When Sybil filled Mary in on their plans for the next day, Mary seemed skeptical that Bellasis had no romantic expectations of the outing.

"His nature doesn't seem calculating in that way," Sybil said, sure of herself and her opinion of her new friend. "I know I've only met him one other time, but he's a genuinely nice person—not like the Grey boys. _They_ can never be trusted."

Mary laughed. "No one is so bad as they are. But do be careful darling. I only say that because mama will have different ideas."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Let mama think what she likes. In fact, it might be better if she does. Then maybe she'll leave me alone."

"Let her think that you really are interested in Tom Bellasis?"

Sybil shrugged, which caused Mary to purse her lips. "Darling, it might not be a good idea to take her by surprise when a _different_ Tom asks for your hand."

"We'll work it out," Sybil said. "The decision is not hers or papa's, it's _mine_. So what does it matter what their reaction is, ultimately?"

"It matters a great deal, Sybil, don't lie to yourself about that. Whether or not you need their approval, I think you'll want it when the time comes. And you'll want their forgiveness when it doesn't go so easily as you think."

Sybil sighed, eager to put the subject away. "It's a long way off, anyway. I'm not concerning myself with it for now, and you shouldn't either."

Mary wanted to say more but stopped herself. She was starting to feel a measure of dread as to how Sybil and Tom's love would be received when the truth of it finally came out—even if that truth would remain buried for months yet. "All right," she said finally. "I'll let you go to bed, but consider a chaperone tomorrow."

Sybil grinned. "I'm a step ahead of you."

Sybil's expression took Mary by surprise. "Are you? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Then don't ask," Sybil said with a teasing air.

Mary smiled. "Good night, darling."

"Good night, Mary."

After Mary had gone, Sybil went over to the vanity where she'd left the note that she intended to send by messenger first thing in the morning.

_Dearest Imogen,_

_Will you be free this afternoon? A friend and I have an outing planned, and I dare say it will be of great interest to you. Call the house to confirm as soon as you can. We'll be by to fetch you a few minutes past 2 o'clock._

_Your friend, Sybil_

* * *

The following day, at luncheon, Sybil told everyone about her plan for the day, and smiled to herself as she saw her parents exchange a pleased look. A part of her wanted to roll her eyes at them and tell them once and for all that she would marry Tom no matter how unsuitable they found him. But she reminded herself once again that she'd not abuse Tom that way or step on his honorable intentions for the sake of shocking her parents. Still, another part of her couldn't help but be frustrated that they couldn't see what was right in front of them. The love she felt for Tom was of such strength that she wondered how anyone couldn't see it plainly written on her face. She wanted her parents to see it, to see _her_ , and accept her for who she was and what she wanted. But then she'd remember their expectations and their _assumptions_ —none more significant than the assumption that she'd not give a second thought to the son of a housekeeper, no matter how well educated or well spoken.

 _I am so unlike them_ , she thought in that moment. And for no other reason than her own personal amusement, when Cora asked if anyone would be joining them, Sybil's airy response was, "No."

They were going to have dinner with the Wilkes family, and the truth would come out then, so to Sybil it didn't feel like a lie. But even so as soon as the word came out of her mouth Sybil felt Mary's eyes on her, but she didn't bother turning to look at her sister. Sybil understood Mary's concerns about allowing her mother to believe something that wasn't true, but Sybil felt disinclined to worry about her mother's feelings, since Cora herself hadn't bothered to consult Sybil about what _Sybil's_ feelings were before deciding to play matchmaker.

After the luncheon conversation had moved on from Sybil's outing, Mary asked, "Where did Matthew go off to? He didn't say he had any plans at breakfast this morning."

"He went to see Evelyn Napier," Robert answered.

"He did?" Mary asked, trying to mask her shock and curiosity. "How long had he been planning it? He never mentioned anything."

"Was he supposed to ask your permission?" Edith asked a bit snidely.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Don't try to be funny, Edith. It doesn't suit you."

"I don't know," Robert replied. "Seeing as you know Napier, I _am_ surprised Matthew didn't tell you. Napier did invite both Matthew and Tom to see him when they were in London, after their help with the unpleasantness of the Turk. I suppose he might not have thought of it until this morning."

Mary nodded and took a bite in an effort to hide how unsettling it was to hear mention of Kemal Pamuk. Mary remembered well her conversation with Matthew from the day before. Evelyn's name had come up, so her father's explanation for Matthew having gone to see him didn't satisfy Mary. Even now she tried to replay the conversation in her mind to find a clue as to Matthew's motive. She trusted Matthew wholly and would never believe that he'd do anything that would hurt or compromise her in any way. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that this had something to do with her and that, in the final accounting, she would come to wish that whatever it was Matthew was doing—however benign his intension—hadn't been done.

Later, as Sybil waited in the entrance hall for Bellasis, she saw Mary come down the stairs and asked her if she was all right.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Mary asked, though her tone was not sharp.

"I just wondered if papa at luncheon . . . bringing up that man . . ."

"I'm fine, Sybil. It's never pleasant to think about him, but I'm not as fragile as I seem—at least, I'm not as fragile as I was that night."

Sybil smiled softly. "I've never thought of you as fragile, Mary."

"Because you are too kind to me."

Sybil narrowed her eyes as she asked her next question. "Do you really not know why Matthew went to see Mr. Napier?"

"You heard papa give the reason," Mary said.

"But that's not it, surely—or do you think so?"

Mary offered a smile small and after a moment's hesitation, shook her head.

"Then what?" Sybil asked.

"I honestly don't know, Sybil, and if I'm honest, I don't know that I want to."

"Well, it's Matthew, so you know that if it's related to you at all, he has your best interest in his heart and nothing else."

Mary laughed. "Will you find it as funny as I do that that's what I'm afraid of?"

"I do find it funny," Sybil said with a smile, "but somehow it doesn't surprise me."

"I'll leave you to your waiting," Mary said, "and I hope you enjoy yourself."

Sybil smiled as Mary walked away. She looked up at the clock at the end of the hall, and saw that it was about to chime the top of the hour. Just as it began to do so the doorbell rang. Smiling, Sybil ran to open it, not bothering to wait for Carson.

Upon seeing her, Bellasis took his hat off. "Are you considering serving as a butler or footman as well as a doctor?"

Sybil laughed and pushed him out the door. "No, but I am capable of opening and closing a door on my own. Can't you manage even that?"

Bellasis laughed. "I don't think I have ever tried it."

"I believe you," Sybil said as she moved to close the door behind her. Seeing Carson come up behind her, she added, "Thank you, Carson, tell my parents I've gone."

"Do you think me very spoilt?" Bellasis asked, as he gestured to his family's motor, which was idling at the curb.

Sybil shrugged as she walked past him. "No more than other men of the upper classes."

After she climbed in and settled into her seat, he took the seat opposite her. "I don't find that reassuring."

Sybil smiled but said nothing in response. As the motor began to move, however, she spoke up, "I hope you don't find it presumptuous, but I invited another friend to join us, so we'll have to make a stop before we head to the school."

"Certainly, what's the address?"

Sybil smiled. "The destination is one your driver should know well—the house of Sir John Wilkes."

Bellasis turned to give the driver his new course, and when he turned to face Sybil again there was an unmistakable smirk on his face, which caused Sybil to roll her eyes.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"Oh, surely, I don't have to explain."

"I'm afraid you do."

Bellasis laughed. "You judge your mother and mine for their matchmaking, and here you are doing the very same thing."

"I am not!"

Bellasis threw her a knowing look, which caused Sybil to laugh.

After she collected herself, she said, "I want nothing more than to give you a fair impression of her. Imogen is as loyal and thoughtful a friend as you'll ever hope to find. Your dismissal of her yesterday as 'flighty' is off the mark. I'm not trying to make you fall in love with her, only for you to see who she really is and to have the opportunity to benefit from her friendship. What happens beyond that is up to you and her. You said last night that my high opinion of her was an endorsement. So take my advice and get to know her better. No matter what happens, I dare say you will not regret it."

"All right then, if you say so."

Sybil smiled and looked out the window of the motor. They rode the rest of the way to Imogen's house, which was not all that far, in an easy silence. When they arrived, Sybil suggested that Bellasis wait by the motor while she went to fetch her. Imogen was all smiles when she saw Sybil, but an unmistakable look of dismay came over her face when she looked down to the street and saw Bellasis standing there waiting for them.

"Oh, dear Sybil, what have you done?" She asked quietly but urgently.

Sybil smiled and took Imogen's arm and looped it with her own. "I've invited you to come with me to visit The Royal Free Hospital. Mr. Bellasis is our point of entry and determined to be our friend—yours _and_ mine. Are you game?"

Imogen smiled and looked at Sybil from the side of her eyes. "I am _always_ game, darling."

Bellasis took off his hat as the two women neared. "Miss Wilkes, a delight to see you again."

"Mr. Bellasis, likewise," she responded.

Bellasis gestured to the motor. Sybil climbed in first. Imogen stepped forward but then stepped back and faced Bellasis again.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, I just . . . well, I hope you don't mind me coming along. Sybil didn't mention that the outing was with you or else I might have answered differently. Not because I don't like you, I just know we haven't got on all that well in the past."

His brow furrowed. "What makes you say that?"

"I may not be the cleverest person in our current party but I can read people rather well, it may surprise you to know. Which means I can tell when people consider me tiresome—it happens often enough to me that it's impossible not to notice. I don't take offense usually since most of the time it's a friend of my father's or his hateful wife and I'm no more interested in keeping that person's company than they are in me, and, really, who has the time or the inclination to bother themselves with with people they'll never see again. But sometimes . . ." Imogen trailed off, realizing that she was babbling and that he'd likely stopped listening to her. But when she looked into his eyes, they remained intent on her face. He'd not only followed all that she'd said, but also recognized what she was saying—that he'd made his impatience with her manner obvious in previous occasions.

"I don't mean to embarrass you," she went on, more quietly, "but if you are Sybil's friend and she is mine, then perhaps _we_ will be friends and if that's the case then you may as well know that I do tend to say what comes to mind without much in the way of a filter among the people I trust, so there you have it. I'm sorry."

"I should apologize, not you—I'm not even sure what you'd be apologizing for."

"For being myself, of course, whatever else?"

"Well, you should never do that, Miss Wilkes, certainly not to an ass like me."

Imogen smiled, and Bellasis tilted his head toward the motor with a wink that made her quite weak in the knees. She kept her footing, nevertheless, and climbed in and took her seat next to Sybil, who smiled at the slight blush in Imogen's cheek and took Imogen's hand into hers and squeezed it gently. She hadn't heard their whole exchange, but she hadn't needed to in order to see that whatever Bellasis claimed to think of Imogen, he was somewhat charmed by her. There was a discomfort between them, that was true, but Sybil easily recognized it as the kind of discomfort that only exists when two people who want to be in each other's company haven't figured out quite how to manage it. Sybil was only too happy to help them.

* * *

Later that afternoon, when Matthew returned to Grantham House, he did so with Mr. Evelyn Napier in tow.

When he'd called Evelyn to arrange lunch on that morning, Matthew hadn't been quite sure what he'd say. He did not want to betray Mary's confidence or embarrass her in anyway, but his conversation with her the previous afternoon—and her implication that she regretted how things had gone with Evelyn—rang in his ears all night. By morning he was determined to do something about it. That he was mistaken about what's she'd meant was something he wouldn't realize for some time.

Evelyn was surprised to hear from Matthew but enjoyed seeing him again. For most of the meal they shared, at a posh restaurant near the government offices where Evelyn worked, they spoke of their respective work and how things had gone for Evelyn in the aftermath of Kemal Pamuk's death at Downton. The subject of Mary or the rest of the Crawley family didn't come up until late in the meal, first mentioned by Matthew when he pointed out that the coming summer would be Sybil's first season and as a result Matthew and Tom would likely join the family in London for Sybil's ball. Evelyn mentioned in reply that although his parents knew Robert and Cora, their acquaintance was superficial at best and that any opportunity for deeper ties had likely come and gone.

Evelyn's implication was obvious. Matthew seized on it and said, as casually as he could, that the ugly events that had marked Evelyn's past interaction with Mary were not anyone's fault—who could have guessed death would be an unwelcome guest during Evelyn's first stay at Downton?—and did not have to weigh so heavily on his and Mary's future.

" _Our_ future?" Evelyn had asked surprised. "Of all the adjectives I'd have applied to the future, one that tied me with Lady Mary is not one I'd have used before now."

"Whether you do so in the future is up you," Matthew had replied. To prove this point, Matthew invited Evelyn to Grantham House that afternoon. Evelyn was not a self-flatterer and did not believe that he'd misread Mary's reluctance to enter into a relationship with him. That knowledge had been precisely why, shortly after his ill-fated visit to Downtown with Kemal Pemuk, he'd courted and become engaged to Miss Margaret Sempill, a union that lasted barely long enough for the ink on the papers that announced it to dry. Margaret was a nice girl from a good family, but prone to emotional rashness. Evelyn quickly discovered that she'd latched onto him to nurse a previous disappointment and realized that perhaps the same was true of him. Determined as he was to enter into marriage carried by sincerity of feeling, as kindly as he was able, he ended things with Margaret, who was no worse for the wear. He'd not spent much time with any woman since (despite the efforts of others on his behalf). He wasn't sure, now, that Matthew was getting it right. Still, he was the hopeful sort, and even after all this time, the specter of Mary remained lodged in his heart, if for no other reason that another target that matched her in allure had not presented itself to replace her.

When the two men arrived at the house, Matthew learned from Carson that Robert, Cora and Sybil were all out and that Edith was in her room. Carson also handed over a telegram from Isobel, who'd stayed behind at Crawley House, but before Matthew had a chance to open it Carson led the two men to the library, where he knew Mary to be reading alone.

Mary was surprised at the sight of Evelyn with Matthew, but not unpleasantly so.

"Mr. Napier! How nice to see you again," she said standing.

Evelyn smiled at the sincere warmth of her greeting. "It's lovely to see you again, Lady Mary, especially under friendlier circumstances than when I had to take your leave last."

"What brings you here?" she asked looking back and forth between Evelyn and Matthew.

Matthew thought he saw a measure of confusion behind her eyes, when she looked at him, but unsure of what it could mean, he simply answered her question. "Mr. Napier treated me to lunch so I thought I'd repay the favor straight away and invite him to tea, since we'll be elsewhere for dinner tonight. Though I suppose we're early for that."

Mary looked at the clock. "I imagine it'll be served soon enough. Would you like to sit?"

As Evelyn did so in a chair opposite Mary's spot on the sofa, Matthew finally opened the telegram. Isobel had apparently heard from Claire, who had sent her own telegram to let them know when she and Tom would be returning from Dublin. Matthew wondered why no information on their search for Ciaran Harrington had been included, so he quickly explained the nature of the note and excused himself to call Isobel on the house's phone.

Left alone, Mary and Evelyn sat in awkward silence for several minutes until he finally spoke.

"I hope my presence isn't troubling to you," Evelyn said. "It's only that Mr. Crawley insisted."

"It's not," Mary said, with a smile. "Why would it be?"

Evelyn looked away for a moment and seemed to smile to himself for a fraction of a second before turning back to Mary. "You were crying when I saw you last. I'd never seen a woman cry who wasn't a close relation. I know the tears weren't for me, but . . . well, they left an impression on me, is all. I hope you don't mind me saying that."

"I apologize if I made you feel foolish with my tears. That I wasted them on a man I'd known for less than a day because he rather boldly flirted with me is greater foolishness on my part."

"You were very honest with me on that day, and I appreciated it," Evelyn said.

Mary offered a soft smile. He did not unsettle her heart the way Matthew did, but she could appreciate the predictable sweetness of his manner—a manner her less mature younger self had labeled as merely dull. The life she would live with a man like him would offer all the luxuries and comforts her current life did, and even if he could never make her truly happy, he'd not make her _unhappy_ either. A year removed from when their courtship was meant to begin, she understood the distinction.

"May I be very honest with you," he said quietly, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"Of course."

"I want to apologize for something."

Mary's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Apologize? Gracious me. Whatever for?"

"I've recently heard gossip about the short time I spent at Downton with Mr. Pamuk."

Mary pursed her lips. Of all the things she expected him to address. This was not one of them.

"I pray that you've not heard it or, if you have, that it hasn't made life difficult for you. People who lead idle lives often allow themselves diversions that are unbecoming regardless of the consequences."

Mary swallowed a lump she felt forming in her throat. "Mr. Napier, I must ask that you level with me."

"I had intended to come to Downton to court you, that much is no surprise to you. I had hoped that if things had gone well, we could announce our engagement in short order. We hadn't known each other all that long, I suppose, but I thought—"

"I know," Mary said quietly, in an effort to keep him from having to articulate anything else about what their friendship and correspondence had been prior to Kemal Pamuk's presence in it.

"I know and you know that nothing came to pass because I . . . I missed the mark, so to speak."

"Evelyn—"

He laughed. "It's all right. That's what happened, and I'm . . . well, it's what happened. Unfortunately, there were people who knew me who for reasons that I couldn't begin to explain began suggesting in their circles that it was you who had missed with me. I shouldn't say these people knew me because if they did, they'd know the last thing I would want is for anyone to say a single disparaging word about you. Nevertheless, it suggests that I am the source of any stories that may have come back to you. It is very important to me that you should know that I am not."

Mary smiled. "Thank you for saying that. It hardly matters now, but do you know who the source was?"

"A string of servants who work for several families connected to mine, beginning with my mother's own lady's maid. I never liked her—she had a history of betraying my mother's secrets and confessions, so it was with some satisfaction that I had her sacked."

"I suppose it is on me to say thank you, as it was done on my behalf."

Evelyn smiled. "I would have sacked mother too, but my authority runs well short of that task."

Mary couldn't help but laugh. Looking back at Evelyn, she marveled at the thought that she might have another chance with him if she wanted it. She didn't. She was sure of that, but she was also sure now that Matthew wanted it for her.

She wondered why that might be true.

 _Perhaps_ , Mary thought, _Matthew believes that I must be sure I don't want the life I could have with Evelyn before I can be sure that I want the one he will offer?_

So it was not out of love for Evelyn Napier, but for Matthew Crawley that Mary asked her next question.

"Would you like to join us here for dinner tomorrow?"

* * *

**New Year's Eve**

The rest of the family's stay in London came and went in a flash, but however brief, their sojourn there opened questions that would have to be answered in the year to come. Nineteen-fourteen would be a year of change for everyone, but it came as all new years did at Downton Abbey, with the family, their servants and friends all celebrating it together.

As Tom had promised Matthew in the letter he had sent from Dublin, Claire did, indeed, make it to the servants ball this time and danced one dance with her son, proud that she'd raised a boy so cheeky that he ignored all her concerns about what the family might say about it.

Sybil, who'd spent most of the ball the previous year avoiding Tom for fear that her still growing feelings for him would be obvious to everyone, did not let the same fear stop her this time. If they didn't dance all night, it was because the dearth of male partners meant that Tom had to make time to dance with just about every female present.

As the hands of the clock neared midnight, Sybil stole away, discretely motioning for Tom to follow her. He did after several minutes and walked without hesitation to the small sitting room where they'd found themselves alone the year before. She grinned as he walked in, crossing the room in two steps and sweeping her into his arms.

After a long, passionate kiss, she said, "I've never been more eager for the calendar to turn as I have this year. So much will happen. I can feel it. Do you?"

"I just hope it'll all turns out as well as we want," Tom replied, feeling a tugging at his heart as tears began to glisten in her eyes. "What is it?"

Sybil shook her head. "I always want to remember feeling this happy and this ready for . . . everything."

Tom opened his mouth to speak but the clock in the room loudly struck midnight, sending them both into a fit of laughter at the memory of what that very clock had stopped them from doing the year before.

Sybil took Tom's face into her hands. "I don't know about you, but I'm not going to let that stupid old thing stop us from kissing _this_ year."

Their smiling lips met as the twelfth chime rang.

The year was now 1914. Lady Sybil Crawley and Mr. Tom Branson were in love, but they still had much life left to live, for which even love couldn't prepare them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI—I'm taking creative license with the medical school stuff for Sybil. The Royal Free did exist (and continues to) and did have a medical school for women, but whether there was an entrance exam or not, whether anyone served as its patron or whether a secretary would just hand off a "practice" test to someone asking for one, I have no idea Several colleges had such entrance exams, including a medical school for women in the U.K that I found some information on that eventually closed, so it's not unheard of. Still, in the U.S. the precursor to what is now known as the MCAT didn't make its debut until the 1920s.
> 
> The arithmetic question that Sybil reads on the test Miss Perry gives her is taken from an actual Harvard College entrance exam from the 1890s.


	46. The Return of Evelyn Napier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes two flashbacks to December 2013, but takes place mostly in March of 1914. The next chapter will jump further ahead to May and finally catch back up to the S1 timeline and the events of episode 6—including the count and the proposals of both Matthew and Anthony to their respective Crawley sisters. As I've always said, this story is intended to mirror the action on the show, but with a twist, so expect some things to unfold similarly to the way they did on the show and others not.

**Late December 1913**

_It hadn't escaped Sybil's notice, on the morning of December 27, 1913 that the calendar now marked three weeks that Tom and his mother had been gone to Ireland. Matthew had told the family, on their return to Downton from London, that he'd received a letter from Tom with the news that he and Claire would return before the new year. But without clarity as to which day they should be expected, Sybil couldn't help but wake up every morning with the hope that this would be the day she'd see her beloved once again. So anxious was she to see him, and share all that had happened to her in London, that she wished she could have screamed in delight when her father casually offered the news, at breakfast, that Matthew had called early that morning to let the family know that the Bransons had made it home from their journey._

_As it was, her teacup fell from hands that were now shaking with excitement, spilling the cup's contents all over the front of her blouse. The mishap offered an opportunity for her to excuse herself to her room, where she would not have to contain herself and where, without bothering to call Anna up, she immediately set about changing to go see him._

_She'd just about finished when Mary knocked on her door and came in, smiling at Sybil's obvious intent. "Aren't you going to let him settle back in at home first?"_

_Sybil lifted her chin and set her shoulders back, "How do you know that's where I'm going?"_

_Mary shot Sybil a knowing look. "He'll be here for dinner, in any case," Mary said. "Mama came down after you left and said she'd let Isobel know. Perhaps you could go see him when she goes to call on Crawley House."_

_Sybil rolled her eyes. "Now you're just teasing me. I know we'll have a chance to talk soon enough. I just want to see him. Even if it's from across the room—to see him and know he's there. He's been gone a terribly long time."_

" _It was less than a month, darling."_

" _I know," Sybil said sighing. After a moment, she said, "How do you suppose people in love stand long absences when forced to do so? I'd be driven mad by the mere prospect. Wouldn't you?"_

" _I'd have to love someone before I can miss them," Mary replied._

_Sybil's expression softened. "Or maybe it's the absence that would reveal the love in your heart."_

" _Well, they do say it makes the heart grow fonder, but even so, it can't create an attachment where none exists."_

" _That's my rather cryptic way of getting around to asking if you miss Mr. Napier."_

" _Oh," Mary said, startled at the turn the conversation had taken. "I wasn't even thinking of . . . him."_

_Sybil smiled. "So you don't love him?"_

" _Did I ever give that impression?" Mary asked, walking to the window, not wanting to have this conversation._

" _He came to the house in London twice—I thought it was at your invitation."_

" _Once Matthew's, and once mine," Mary answered simply._

" _And both were ovations of friendship, then?"_

_Mary thought for a moment, then answered honestly, "I'm not sure what they were, and if you don't mind, darling, that's all I care to say about it."_

_Sybil moved to stand next to her. "I'm sorry for prying. He's a nice man."_

" _He is," Mary said with a sigh. Looking over at Sybil, she said, "Off you go, then, those with no doubt in their mind have no reason to dally."_

_Sybil smiled. "Someday, you'll be as sure as I am."_

_Mary turned to watch Sybil leave, then turned back to the window, in no hurry to move from her present spot. Speaking aloud to no one but herself, she said, "That's what I'm afraid of."_

* * *

_After leaving the house, Sybil made a beeline for her and Tom's secret spot, but not finding him there and feeling too cold and anxious to wait, she chose not to linger there waiting for him and instead headed for the village._

_Sybil knew that Isobel usually went to the hospital Saturday mornings and was unlikely to deviate from her routine even on Tom and Claire's first morning back in town. Sybil also knew that Matthew's Saturday mornings usually involved work on estate business, either at the house or around the estate with William. Tom joined him often but not always._

Surely _, she thought,_ he'd stay behind and wait for me . . . or would he come to the house assuming I would wait for him there? Or should I go back to the woods despite the cold?

_Sybil stopped mid-walk and threw her head back in frustration. "I just want to see him," she said aloud, as if speaking to the heavens. Facing forward again, she laughed at her own antics and was grateful that the street was empty, lest someone wonder if she'd lost her mind._

_The heavens or fate or God himself, perhaps, took pity on her because she hadn't taken three steps when a pair of familiar figures appeared in the distance walking in her direction. She was so happy to see Tom—_ At last! _—that she was only slightly disappointed that he wasn't alone. Matthew walked alongside him, effectively delaying a proper reunion until the lovers could find themselves alone._

_Both young men noticed Sybil at the same time, but it was Matthew who spoke first when they were close enough to do so._

" _Good morning, Sybil," he said cheerfully._

" _Good morning," She said, looking back and forth between the two, unable to keep her focus on Tom for too long lest her heart, which was beating increasingly rapidly, actually burst inside her chest._

" _Good morning," Tom said quietly, holding his hands together behind his back, as eager to reach out and touch Sybil as she was of doing the same. "You look very well. I trust you had a happy Christmas."_

" _I did," Sybil said, allowing her nervous expression to soften into a small smile that might have made Tom cry on the spot if he weren't so self-possessed. "Though we missed you. I hope your family enjoyed having you."_

" _It was a good holiday. I'm glad we went." Tom paused, as if wanting to say more, but thinking better of it. Then he added, "Matthew was telling me just now about your visit to London."_

" _We were just on our way to the house, actually," Matthew said. "And you?"_

_Sybil glanced at Tom who looked away, obviously trying to hide a smile. "Um, I, well, I . . . I am going to the post office."_

" _Not the hospital?" Matthew asked. "Mother is on her way there."_

" _Oh, I suppose I could have gone there, too," Sybil said, starting to get a bit flustered. "That is to say, I will go there. After the post office, I mean."_

" _Well, we won't keep you," Matthew said with a smile. "The truth is I can't dally much longer, as we have an appointment with Mason."_

" _All right, then," Sybil said, looking at Tom again. "Well, I'll see you at dinner, if not before. I hope to hear all about Ireland."_

" _I look forward to telling you about it," Tom said with a tip of his hat._

_Sybil smiled, hoping that the disappointment she felt wasn't written all over her face. She turned away to keep walking in the opposite direction of Matthew and Tom and closed her eyes, letting out a long breath. After she'd gone about ten paces, she turned back and watched them walking away for a moment before Tom also turned to look back at her._

_With her eyes still on him, she lifted her hand to her mouth, then turned to continue on her way, more at ease than she'd been before she'd seen him, but now preparing herself for the torture of having to wait until after dinner to see him alone._

_After she had touched her lips and turned back away from him, Tom watched her for another second before saying quietly, "You know, I need to go back to the house, I forgot—"_

" _Just go," Matthew said with a smirk. "I can see you're jumping out of your skin."_

_Tom smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "I'm sure your accounting is fine. But if you still want me to I'll—"_

" _Go," Matthew repeated, laughing. "I doubt you'll be able to concentrate on anything anyway. You can review the end-of-year figures tonight or tomorrow."_

_Without another word, Tom patted Matthew on the back and turned to run after Sybil, just as she was rounding a corner. He snuck up on her so suddenly, that she let out a yelp when she felt him grab her hand and pull her into the alley next to the house they'd just passed. They had to go about thirty feet or so from the road to ensure they'd not be seen, but once they turned toward one another, none of the rest of the world mattered anymore._

_Sybil launched herself into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck as if holding on for dear life. For a long moment, they merely held each other, breathed each other in, until Sybil loosened her grip and pulled back on far enough to bring her lips to his. Tom met her kiss eagerly._

" _How can we ensure we're never apart again?" Sybil asked, her eyes still closed, when they finally pulled away._

" _I don't know," Tom said with a laugh, "but I'm willing to try anything."_

_Sybil took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. "It's foolish to think life won't ever get in our way again, of course, but . . . golly, I've missed you."_

_Tom smiled and kissed her again on the forehead. "Not more than I missed you."_

" _What did you say to Matthew to get away?"_

" _You now, it was seconds ago and I don't even remember."_

_Sybil laughed. "We're a pair of fools, aren't we?"_

" _Fools in love."_

* * *

**March 1914**

The last few days of December, especially New Year's Eve and the servants ball, had given Tom and Sybil numerous opportunities to catch up after their time apart—many more so than would the rest of the winter, which came and went in a long, slow, snowy slog. The weather was exceedingly cold and gray, even for the north of England, keeping most everyone from going out of doors unless absolutely necessary. Upon his return to the partnership, Tom was greeted with a pile of work that kept him buried and unable to focus on little else for weeks. The number of times it required him to work late into the night during the early part of the year reduced the frequency with which he was able to dine at Downton Abbey.

Sybil missed him, but her mind was just as full of her own concerns, having immersed herself in her studies with renewed vigor after the first of the year. Her meeting with Miss Perry had served to strengthen her resolve, and the sample test Miss Perry had procured had provided direction as far as what she needed to be ready for going forward. Tom was, of course, immensely proud of Sybil and loved the way her eyes lit up whenever she talked of a new lesson.

He was also impressed at how quickly she was advancing. She had given herself several years to prepare for her application and entry into the college, but circumstances seemed to be aligning quite perfectly—Miss Perry having agreed to help and proving so resourceful in doing so, Isobel having kept all of Reginald's notes from his own time as a student of medicine, and even Tom Bellasis's friendship coming with the added benefit of access and insight into the institution that Sybil wouldn't have had otherwise. All of it suggested to Tom that the reality of Sybil as a medical student might bear out sooner rather than later, and it made him start to consider more seriously how it would affect his own reality.

Tom and Sybil had not spoken of when exactly they might get married, a silent acknowledgment that it all depended on how her family would receive the news. Still, Tom assumed that by the time she began her medical studies in London in earnest, they'd be husband and wife. He also assumed that such a time was enough years away that the planning of it was likewise years into the future. Given how quickly Sybil—and indeed, time itself—seemed to be advancing, however, Tom now wondered whether she would end up realizing her goal much sooner than either of them had anticipated and whether he would be ready to move on to London when she was. To be sure, he wasn't particularly enamored with his job in Ripon, and good lawyers were always in demand anywhere, so he welcomed the now seemingly less and less remote possibility of trying his luck in such a large metropolitan city.

But no matter how much of his life with Sybil he had to look forward to, Tom knew now that he would never feel fully whole if he never found his brother. He didn't tell Sybil as much in so many words, when he related to her the disappointment of not having found him in Dublin, but she could see that particular truth in his eyes. It scared her a bit to know that there was a piece of happiness floating out in the universe that she could not secure for him, but the more she thought of it, the more clear it became that there were elements of her own happiness (namely, her career aspirations), that he could not secure for _her_.

It was an unsettling notion for two people so in love, so young and so untested in the challenges and heartbreak that life could bring: that no person, not matter how much you loved them, could give you everything you wanted.

Eventually, of course, in the coming months and years, life would bring them the very challenges and heartbreak that taught a lesson they'd learn separately and together: that if you were lucky, the love of your life would give you what you needed when you needed it and in the final accounting that would prove exactly enough.

* * *

It was the onset of March that finally brought a reprieve for Tom at work and loosened winter's grip on the landscape. Potential visitors and guests came out of hiding, as invitations started floating around again. And with a by-election less than two months away, local political parties also began to stir.

Despite how deep into her studies she was, Sybil's desire to attend more political events hadn't abated since the afternoon she spent with Imogen at Speakers Corner. Tom was happy to facilitate her interest. Given his own desire to stay abreast of what the local parties were doing, he wasn't exactly going out of his way and was always able to find a meeting or lecture or suffrage rally for them to attend whenever Sybil could manage to get Pratt to drive her to Ripon. Sybil wasn't lying to anyone about her whereabouts. If her father or mother had asked her where she was going all the time, she'd have answered honestly, though it was fair to say that she was getting good at artfully avoiding the question. Cora continued assuming that Sybil would fall in line with her and Robert's wishes despite all evidence to the contrary, and Sybil continued not to correct those assumptions.

Only Matthew knew what she was up to, having once run into an unwitting Pratt just outside the partnership's offices. Matthew immediately warned Tom of what Robert might think if he were to find out of Sybil's political inclinations and activity.

The two discussed the issue on a clear, warm evening late in the month, as they made their way back home from their offices.

"I know he'd be upset, Matthew. I'm not completely daft," Tom said. "Robert doesn't like anyone who disagrees with him, a fact I have more direct experience with than you do."

"All right, then, if you're so clever about it, why do you insist on doing things you know will upset him, especially with Sybil's season coming so soon? If I were you I'd be trying to curry favor with the man I wanted to be my father-in-law."

Tom laughed. "I understand what you're trying to tell me, but you're also talking as if this is all _my_ doing. I'm political, yes, but I didn't plant the interest in Sybil, neither have I encouraged her as much I as you think I have. _She_ said she wanted to start attending some of the meetings with me. You know Sybil well enough. What do you honestly think would have happened if she'd asked me and I said, 'No, darling, we must mind your father'?"

"Other than ask, 'Who are you and what have you done with Tom,' you mean?'"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes, other than _that_."

Matthew scratched his forehead, unable to contain his smile. "She'd just start going on her own."

"Precisely," Tom said with a sigh. "I won't lie. I find that terribly endearing, which doesn't help matters. I love her mind, but it is entirely her own and she knows it quite well."

"All right," Matthew said. "I'm satisfied with having warned you. Just . . . be careful. Some of those can get rather rowdy."

"Like I said, I'm not completely daft."

And it was true. Tom knew his and Robert's relationship was frayed enough already. But there was only so much he was willing to concede to a man who represented a system Tom stood against. And it so happened that Sybil was willing to concede even less.

When Tom and Matthew arrived at Crawley House that evening, Isobel noted that an invitation had come to dine with the family the following night.

"What's the occasion?" Tom asked.

"I believe Mr. Napier has been invited to stay."

"Oh, so that's still happening, is it?" Tom said looking over at Matthew with a smirk.

"What?" Matthew asked.

Tom sighed. "Never mind."

"I'm going up to my room," Matthew said, shaking his head. "I'll be down before dinner."

Tom and Isobel watched him go. "Why do you suppose he insisted on bringing Mr. Napier back into Mary's life?" Tom asked.

"Because he thinks that's what Mary wants," Isobel replied easily. "Why else?"

Tom smiled and shook his head, heading down to the parlor to read before dinner. There was no denying what Isobel said. Matthew's concern for Mary—a sentiment Tom was prepared to call love, even if Matthew himself was not yet ready to—would dictate that he would act on her happiness, and hers only. Even if it meant putting his own feelings aside. Tom had always known Matthew to be a deeply unselfish person, but when Sybil told him that Matthew had sought out Mr. Napier in London, despite that fact that so far as Sybil could see Mary didn't seem all that interested, Tom was surprised.

Everyone had seen that Matthew and Mary's rapport had grown warmer over time and was no longer marked with the barb and sarcasm that sparked between them at first meeting. Few were bold enough to assume this would lead to an eventual union between them, but it certainly no longer seemed like a terribly remote possibility. If anything, both Tom and Sybil thought that the greatest hurdles that stood between Matthew and Mary and potential happiness together were Matthew and Mary themselves.

* * *

**December 1913**

_"Can it really have been more than a year since you've been at Downton, Mr. Napier?" Cora asked as the family settled into their seats in the Grantham House dining room._

_Indeed, it had been that long—so long that neither Evelyn, nor any member of the Crawley family had imagined that he would be among them again, especially given what had happened then with the visitor from Turkey. They'd all been surprised that Matthew had sought him out the morning before, but when Mary announced later that day that_ she _had invited him to join the family for dinner, the resulting reaction was outright shock. And for no one was that shock greater than for Cora. She'd been continually frustrated over the past year by Mary's seeming indifference about her own future, but now wondered if perhaps a new year would bring a new attitude in her eldest daughter._

_"Time really does fly," Edith said. "I wish we could say we have much to show for it, but life at Downton has a way of dragging on."_

_"Such a cheerful note to start dinner," Mary said, with a roll of her eyes. Matthew, who was sitting across from her, caught her doing it and shook his head ever so slightly, but with a smile, as if chastising her but also good-naturedly accepting that being sarcastic with Edith was simply something Mary would always do. Mary pulled her lips into her mouth as if she were accepting that wishing she were nicer to Edith was simply something Matthew would always do._

_Which then led to thoughts of_ Matthew _and_ always _, and her smile faded because that's not was tonight was about._

_"Oh, I can't say I disagree with Edith," Sybil said, with a pacifying tone. "There isn't much in the way of change that comes to Downton, from one year to the next. I dare say, Mr. Napier's work in foreign service is a great deal more dynamic and exciting."_

_Evelyn smiled, looking from Mary, next to him, to Sybil. "I wish that were true, Lady Sybil. There are interesting things going on outside of his majesty's kingdom that we must keep tabs on. That is certain, but the day-to-day work that involves is its own sort of tedium. I, for one, am not so enamored with change that I rue long absences of it, especially in the country, which I see as a respite from all of that."_

_"Well, then you'll fit in very well with papa," Sybil said, smiling cheekily at Robert._

_"And most sensible people," Robert replied._

_"Would you ever take a post abroad?" Sybil asked._

_"I think that would depend," Evelyn answered._

_"On the location?" Edith asked._

_"On … my future wife," Evelyn said, a bit sheepishly. "I don't think I could manage life abroad as a bachelor, but I wouldn't dream of imposing it on a wife who didn't want it, so it would be up to her."_

_The room got quiet as they all began to tuck into their first course and the unasked question—_ Would Mary want to be that wife? _—hung in the air._

_Looking down at her plate, Mary asked herself the question, but her answer remained as elusive as it had been the first time that Evelyn had come into her life with the intention of courting her. She discretely looked over to him now and caught him looking at her. She smiled, then looked back down at her plate. Evelyn was kind, sweet and nice looking. He was an heir to a vast estate and respectable title. He was precisely the kind of man that she'd imagined herself marrying back when her future seemed easy. But she knew now that her future was anything but easy—in truth, it had never been easy. She'd been blind to its complications before, or merely unwilling to acknowledge them. Either way, what Evelyn Napier had to offer her was everything and nothing at the same time. Marrying him would solve a lot of questions, but it wouldn't solve everything._

_It wouldn't solve …_ her _._

_Looking across from her, Mary looked at Matthew again. He had turned to his left to speak with Sybil. He leaned into Sybil slightly and said something that made Sybil laugh._

No doubt they are speaking about Tom _, Mary thought._

_Mary watched them for several minutes, feeling her heart tighten. Matthew would solve her. He would solve everything. But whether he wanted the role was still an open question, just as open as the question of what Mary would do without him, so close to what could be, but still so far._

_The conversation continued throughout dinner, never stilted, but neither as free-flowing nor gregarious as it might have been. Mary remained attentive to Evelyn throughout the meal and did her best to keep him engaged in the conversation. It all looked effortless, of course, but to her it felt like an uphill climb with no knowledge of what her reward would be at the end of it—either Evelyn finally turning her heart the way it needed to be turned or Matthew coming to his senses and telling her the test was over. But she couldn't very well pull out now._

_Evelyn, for his part, had always been keenly self-aware, so he knew that being in that dining room didn't mean he was any closer to Mary than he'd been the day before, before Matthew had asked him to come. He even went so far as to wonder whether Matthew had miscalculated, but there was no denying that at least on this evening, he was the sole focus of Mary's attention and whether or not that attention was sincerely given, he liked having it._

_Matthew watched them throughout the evening from across the table, he might have guessed that Mary's heart wasn't in it, if he hadn't so thoroughly convinced himself that this impression was so much wishful thinking on his part._

* * *

**March 1914**

The following day, in the early afternoon, Mr. Evelyn Napier arrived at Downton Abbey, but he wasn't the only man with an interest in a Crawley daughter to come to the house that day.

Sir Anthony Strallan had not been seen at Downton Abbey for months. Just as it had seemed that his interest in Edith would formalize into an engagement, the appearance of his sister, Delilah, upset the applecart and a note excusing both of them from one dinner with the Crawleys became the last correspondence between him and a family that he'd considered good friends, even before any potential matches had come into the picture. His sister's disappointment in his choice stemmed not from dissatisfaction with the family, but from an expressed belief that he could "do better" than the sister who, in her estimation, was too easily overlooked.

 _What distinction is that trifle of a girl going to bring to this house?_ Delilah had asked when Anthony revealed to her the object of his attachment. _Your modesty is usually so becoming, dear brother, but here it does you harm. You choose the least of what is available to you when you deserve so much more. If Maude were here, she would say the same._

Anthony didn't argue because he never argued, not with Delilah, and certainly not with the memory of his late wife. She was a beauty and celebrated as such every season before her marriage to someone who was rather befuddled that such a woman would pay him any mind. But it was precisely his unassuming nature and modesty that won her over. She would never have questioned his instincts the way Delilah suggested she would, but then Maude and Delilah never really got on or agreed on what was best for Anthony—a fact that Delilah omitted from her plea to her brother that he not continue to indulge a friendship with Edith Crawley.

What Delilah did not count on, of course, was just how lonely Anthony would become in the time after she had gone from Locksley to spend the holidays with her own family. With both his sister gone and without the promise of time spent with Edith, the solitude of his house was no longer the pleasant oasis it had once been. As the weeks and months went by, Delilah's objection mattered less and less to him. Still, he couldn't very well visit the Crawleys or drop back into Edith's life as if nothing had happened. His behavior had been ungentlemanly, first hiding the truth from Delilah, then submitting to her wishes without question.

He resolved then to find some measure of distraction elsewhere and made arrangements to travel on the continent at springtime, before crowds of Brits could be found looking for summer respite there. Only a few days before he was set to leave, he wrote a letter to his sister with his plans, having waited to tell her until it was too late to change course on purpose, so she would not try to talk him out of it—or try to make it a point of joining him.

He was never so romantic as Edith, so later only _she_ would call his decision to drive into the village to deliver the letter himself, rather than have his valet or butler do it, an act of fate. Whether it was a happy coincidence or truly a matter of divine intervention, Sir Anthony Strallan saw Lady Edith Crawley across the lane from the post office after his errand had been completed. Her feelings had been deeply hurt by his actions and later by his absence, but in that moment, she didn't remember any of it. She smiled and waved. He, with no thought wasted on who it might disappoint, walked across the street to greet her.

Taking his hat off, he said, "Lady Edith, how nice to see you."

"Thank you. It's nice to see you."

He fidgeted with his hat for a moment. "I hope your family are well."

"They are," she said, her smile tightening slightly as the awkwardness of the moment began to catch up with her.

Anthony put his hat back on. "Well, I should let you—"

"Is that a new car?" Edith asked, pointing to the vehicle, which he'd parked at the end of the street, just a few yards away from where they were standing.

"Indeed," he said, perking up. "I've—I've rather taken to driving myself, and I have to keep finding destinations to justify it."

"What kind of car is it?"

"It's an open Rolls Royce," he said.

"It's very nice."

"Do you still drive?"

Edith smiled. "Not so often as I would like to. Papa doesn't like it, so the chauffeur makes excuses when I ask if I may take out one of the vehicles."

Anthony looked back and forth between the car and Edith. "Would you like to drive this one?"

Edith's eyes and smile widened. "Do you really mean it?"

"Of course. Why would I ask, if I didn't?"

Edith looked down at her hands. "It's only that . . . "

"I'm very sorry," Anthony said quietly.

Edith looked up into his eyes. "Sorry about what?"

"It was terribly unfair of me to put you in a situation where . . . well, you must understand . . . my sister and I have a—"

"Sir Anthony, you don't have to explain."

"No, I do. I should. Delilah is my only family, and so her influence is outsized, and it's been that way for years, and I am nothing if not a creature of habit . . . what I mean to say is, it was ungentlemanly of me to carry on a friendship with you and keep her in the dark, even if my intention was only to protect you from her judgment, and I made a bad mistake doubly worse by submitting to that judgment. I hope you will forgive me. You don't require her approval any more than I require it."

The corners of Edith's lips perked up into a small smile. "All right, then. What happens now?"

"Well, if you'd like to go for a spin, I'd love nothing more. I go to Austria and Germany in a few days and won't be back for a month or so, but when I return, maybe we can go for another."

Anthony put out his arm, and Edith slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "You can drive this time, and I'll practice while you're gone," she said. "I'd hate to drive us into a ditch now when the future holds such promise."

Anthony smiled and put his hand over hers, where it was clutching his arm, and felt a surge of affection and happiness.

"Let's do go by the house first," Edith said, as she climbed into his car.

"You're right," Anthony said. "I should ask permission of your parents."

Edith nodded, but really she only wanted him there so they could see that he was back, and to confirm with Mrs. Patmore that it wasn't too late to invite him to dinner.

* * *

The return of Sir Anthony Strallan to Downton Abbey for dinner that evening was a surprise, but a welcome one. Cora was glad to see that the chance that she believed had been stolen from Edith was now in play once again. In fact, before dinner, just as the group was gathering, Anthony took the time to pull Cora and Robert aside to apologize to them for his sister and to say what he hadn't said to them before—that his intentions with Edith were honorable.

Edith was very obviously happier than she'd been in some time, to the point that Sybil wondered if Anthony had already proposed and was only waiting for his return from his travels to formalize their engagement.

Indeed, Anthony's planned visit to Austria and Germany was a topic of conversation once dinner was served, with Evelyn expressing some work-related interest in the political activity of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

"My interests in the country are not nearly so consequential," Anthony said in response.

"Does the activity of the empire concern the government?" Tom asked Evelyn.

"The Bosnian Crisis may have been resolved, but the tensions between the empire and the Slavic region did not go away. There's fear that we've not seen the worst of what may come."

"Well, let us leave that topic aside with the hope that conflict, if there is one, doesn't reach our shores," Cora said. "I'd hate for you to have to think too much about your work, Mr. Napier, when you're here with us precisely to be away from it."

Evelyn smiled. "Thank you, Lady Grantham. I do share your hope, and wish you happy and safe travels, Sir Anthony."

"Where will you spend most of your time?" Isobel asked.

"Vienna," Anthony answered. "My mother was a lover of music and an accomplished pianist in her own right. She took my sister and I to Vienna as children several times to visit the old haunts of some of her favorite composers, so I like to go back to revisit those memories."

"How lovely," Edith said, smiling.

"Edith, why don't you play something for us after dinner," Cora said. "You do know, Sir Anthony, that Edith plays the piano very well, don't you?"

Edith blushed slightly, surprised that her mother would talk her up in such a way. "I don't think it's ever come up."

"How delightful!" Anthony said. "I look forward to it."

Edith and Anthony looked at one another in a way that no one missed—no one including the two around whom dinner had been planned, and in that moment, both of them acquiesced to the inevitable conclusion, one that they were bound to reach by the end of Evelyn's stay at Downton.

As dinner progressed, the conversation remained on light topics, and after, as promised, Edith sat at the piano in the parlor and played. At Sybil's insistence, after Edith finished her first piece and after Sybil explained to the gentlemen guests that the family's musical gifts rested on the shoulders of her older sisters but not herself, Mary stood and sang while Edith accompanied her, a moment made special by the fact that, for this particular pair of Crawley sisters, it was unusual to find themselves so easily in harmony, so to speak. Matthew watched Mary with unblinking eyes, lest he miss a second, and as soon as she found his gaze, Mary was barely able to look elsewhere.

Later, once the party had retreated back to the drawing room, Tom approached Matthew, who had been standing in a corner of the room, watching everyone.

"Can I ask you something?" Tom asked, approaching carefully.

Matthew looked at Tom warily from the side of his eyes, already dreading what the question is going to be.

"Oh? What question would that be?"

Tom took a sip of his whiskey, then jutted his chin out toward where Evelyn was sitting talking with Mary. "What is he doing here?"

"You don't like Evelyn?"

Tom laughed. "You know very well I like him. That's not what I'm asking. Why did you invite him here?"

"I _didn't_ invite him here. Robert and Cora did."

"You invited him to Grantham House while you were in London, which ultimately led to this invitation."

Matthew looked at Tom again with questioning eyes.

"Sybil told me."

Matthew chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Of course, she did."

"You're doing a dandy job of avoiding my question," Tom said with a laugh. "You brought him back into her life—why?"

Matthew let out a long sigh. "Mary is unhappy. She's unhappy because she believes she won't marry as well as she once thought she would, but she's wrong about that. She could if she wanted. She's just being stubborn."

"So you invited him for the sake of winning an argument?"

"Tom, what are you asking me?"

Tom took another drink. "I think you're right," he said. "But not about what you think you're right about."

Matthew rolled his eyes, which caused Tom to laugh.

"You're right that Mary is surprised she's not going to marry a duke or something, but you don't give her self-regard enough credit if you think that she believes _nobody_ wants to marry her."

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"I don't mean it the way it sounded. What I mean is that if she is unhappy, it's because she doesn't think she will marry the man she wants to marry." Tom looked Matthew in the eyes for a long moment to try to get Matthew to understand what he was saying without having to actually say it, lest the saying of it embarrass Matthew in any way.

Matthew, of course, had no trouble guessing. "Don't be ridiculous," he said dismissively.

"Look, I won't pretend that I know anything about whatever goes on in Mary's head or her heart. She's terribly good at keeping it all buried behind her stoic demeanor, but Sybil knows her better than anyone. She's as keen to see Mary happy as you are and she—"

"And she what? She sent you to me on a match-making mission?"

"No," Tom replied quickly. "I came over because I know _you_ , and I wonder why you'd bring in unnecessary competition."

"Mary doesn't want to be with a middle-class man. She deserves better than that anyway, better than me."

" _I_ am a middle-class man, Matthew. You are not, and you haven't been for some time. You are the heir to an earl. And I think you should let the lady be the judge of what she deserves."

"Regardless, none of it matters because I was engaged, or have you forgotten."

"Having been engaged to someone who would have made you a good wife, but who very tragically died, doesn't disqualify you from being engaged again. Lavinia wouldn't have . . . She was a sweet girl, a kind girl. She wouldn't have wanted you to be unhappy."

Matthew looked down at the glass he was holding. "I don't think I loved her enough," he said in a whisper.

"Why would you say that?" Tom asked.

"Because if it felt then like it feels now, I'd still be mourning her."

"So you do feel _something_ now?"

"Never mind me," Matthew said. "I think it's the brandy talking."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"You're going to tell me anyway."

Tom sighed. "You say that Mary is unhappy because she believes her future is no longer going to be what she once thought it was. That's also true of you. You're just as scared as she is of not knowing what the future holds after having been so sure of it for so long, but you're projecting your fears onto her. It's not fair. Not to either of you. I've said it before, but it bears repeating: You're more like her than you realize."

Matthew lifted his eyes to Mary across the room again, then looked back to Tom. "I think it's about time we call it a night, don't you? I'll see if mother is ready."

Tom shook his head. If Matthew was ever going to get his head around his own feelings, today was not the day. "If we must."

* * *

The following morning, Evelyn Napier thanked the Crawleys profusely for the invitation to stay at Downton for several days but announced that he'd have to return to London in short order. As his valet helped Pratt mount his suitcases onto the motor, Evelyn and Mary took a brief walk around the garden. With an ease that only a sincere friendship may produce, they agreed that last night had made more than obvious something that they already suspected—friends really was all they were meant to be.

There was some regret in the moment, but in time and in the challenges that neither of them knew still lay ahead, their friendship would be something for which they would both be deeply grateful.


	47. The Counting of the Votes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of Sybil's storyline in episode six from series one. There is a lot of repurposed, re-contextualized dialogue from the show, tweaked to fit the circumstances as I've imagined them.

**May 1914**

"Mail's here, Thomas, please take it up to the dining room, will you?"

Thomas looked up from where he was seated at the long table outside the entrance to the servants hall, finishing his cigarette. Mrs. Hughes pointed to the three letters she had just dropped in front of him. "Quickly, now, they'll be finishing up breakfast soon," she added for good measure, before stepping inside again.

Thomas sighed and took another drag from his cigarette before picking up the letters to see who they were for. "Who do you suppose is writing Lady Edith?" he asked O'Brien, who was seated next to him.

"Sir Anthony Strallan, I imagine," she replied. "He's been on holiday, but her ladyship is convinced the engagement will be announced not long after he's back."

"The presumed spinster is going to be the first Crawley daughter to the altar," Thomas said with a laugh. "Who'd have guessed that?"

"Not her mother," O'Brien said with a smirk. "Who will take all the credit for the match, no doubt—even though she first invited him here for Lady Mary."

"That uppity minx settling for an old man? Not likely."

"She'd best settle for someone soon or _both_ her younger sisters will be married before she is."

Thomas looked at O'Brien with a raised eyebrow. "Do you know something I don't?"

O'Brien looked away and said, "I have my suspicions. And if I'm right, it'll be against her parents' wishes—not that that's a surprise. "

"In other words, you don't know anything," Thomas said with a roll of his eyes.

"I know enough."

Thomas took the last drag of his cigarette, wondering if there really was something to what O'Brien was saying about Lady Sybil. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Lady Sybil in the library about a year ago now, when she'd saved him from Carson after he'd broken a tea cup, and her lack of judgment when he admitted to sending Pamuk to her room in an effort to save himself. He didn't know whether O'Brien had any real information and, if she did, what she intended to do with it. But he knew whose side he'd be on if Sybil did make a divisive decision of any kind.

Just then, Bates came up the driveway, glancing at the pair at the table before stepping inside. Thomas flicked his cigarette butt away in disgust and, picking up the mail from the table, moved to go inside too. After getting the small silver dish on which letters were delivered, he made his way up the stairs to the dining room where Robert sat at the head of the table reading his newspaper while his daughters sat around him. Thomas took Edith's letter off the top of the stack and walked up beside her.

"A letter for you, milady," he said with a bow.

Edith looked around the table. She very rarely received correspondence and was not surprised to see everyone else look as shocked as she was. A slight blush came over her cheeks as she took the letter from Thomas, who then delivered the rest to the head of the table, where Robert sat.

"Well?" Sybil said, looking at Edith. "Who is it from?"

Without realizing she was doing it, Edith brought her hand to her heart. "It's from Sir Anthony."

Anthony had written the family several times during his journey in the continent, but to this point, he'd addressed all his notes to Cora, as a person of his age would have considered more appropriate. This was the first time he'd written directly to Edith.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Mary asked.

Edith looked up from the letter in her shaking hands. "Of course, I am," she said, standing from her chair and leaving her half-eaten breakfast and family behind.

"I'm sure it's little more than a painfully polite description of his travels," Mary said, taking another bite of her breakfast.

Sybil snickered. "You don't think Sir Anthony would write a floridly romantic letter?"

"No," Mary replied, "and so you don't mistake me, I will clarify that I mean that as a compliment to him. He's too much gentleman."

"Oh, I don't know," Sybil said. "I think the quiet ones can surprise you."

"That's enough of this topic, thank you," Robert said, humorlessly.

"Don't you like him, papa?" Sybil asked.

"Sir Anthony Strallan is a fine man, but I'd just as soon not think about what he may or may not be writing to your sister in a letter."

With that, Robert folded the newspaper and stood to go without another word, leaving Mary and Sybil alone in the dining room. They smiled at each other as he left.

"So what are your plans for the day?" Mary asked.

"I'm going to see Isobel with mama, and if that goes well to Ripon this afternoon for a . . . lecture."

"Lecture? What kind of _lecture_?"

Sybil smiled. Though she wasn't looking at Mary, Sybil could sense the smirk, the perfectly arched eyebrow. "A political one. A talk regarding the upcoming by-election."

"Are you planning on casting a vote?" Mary asked archly.

"I am," Sybil responded with all the sincerity she could muster. "Not this election, of course, but someday."

Mary turned to her with smile. "I don't doubt it, but what does Isobel have to do with it."

"She plans to go as well. I'm hoping that mama will be persuaded by her that it's perfectly all right for me to accompany her."

The two finished their breakfasts and stood to leave the dining room.

"I can only assume papa has not been consulted as to his opinion on the outing," Mary said, as they stepped into the hall.

"Well, he hasn't asked me what I doing today," Sybil said.

Mary shook her head and smiled. "For your sake, I'll hope that at the end of the day, there's nothing to tell."

* * *

"Those things can be dangerous, though, can't they?" Cora asked.

She and Sybil were sitting with Isobel in the Crawley House sitting room later that morning having tea and discussing the political rally that Sybil wanted to attend with Isobel. Cora had asked whether Matthew or Tom would be attending, but the former didn't have much of an interest in such things and the latter, though very much interested, had found himself too tied up with work that week to accompany them. The lack of a male escort concerned Cora, who made her concerns known.

"It's a political rally, mama, not a boxing match," Sybil said, starting to wish she'd not brought her mother into it.

She'd been going to these events with Tom for weeks, but she'd started to feel a measure of guilt about not being fully truthful with her parents. She wanted to be able to attend more rallies in London when June came around, so she broached the topic with her mother. Sybil believed Cora could be more easily persuaded than her father and could persuade Robert once she was convinced that there was nothing out of the ordinary with Sybil's interests. When Isobel mentioned an interest in attending this event, Sybil knew this was her chance.

"Oh, I suppose things can get a bit rowdy sometimes," Isobel said, "but I wouldn't be going myself, if I thought there was a possibility of real violence. If things take a turn we'll leave straight away."

Cora sighed. "All right, but Sybil I'd like for Pratt to take you. I know you intend to take the train, Isobel, but I'd feel better if Sybil has someone with her and can make a quick exit if need be."

"Oh, thank you, mama!" Sybil said, delightedly.

"And do be sure that you're home in time to change, darling," Cora added.

"Of course," Sybil replied with a deep sigh let out in an effort not to roll her eyes.

* * *

Because she had other errands to run in town before the rally, Isobel left directly after luncheon. Sybil and Cora, who had walked to the village to see Isobel that morning, walked back to the house, discussing the upcoming season and the final preparation for Sybil's ball, now only weeks away. It wouldn't have been Sybil's preferred topic—with her studies and politics taking over her mind, her season rarely entered into her thoughts—but feeling grateful that her mother had met her halfway in her desire to be more political, Sybil didn't mind.

It was to be a grand affair, as the last like event that the Crawleys would ever host. Cousins and close friends would be coming from all corners of England, though Cora's own mother, Martha, had unfortunately spent most of the winter ill and was not yet strong enough to travel. Cora was disappointed, naturally, but floated the idea of going to New York the following year to pay her a visit. It was an idea that Sybil liked, especially when she considered that Imogen and her family might be going back to their seat in New York after the season, so there was a possibility Sybil would have a friend there—but Sybil would only be willing if such a journey did not interfere with her plans for medical school.

And if Tom could go with her, of course.

* * *

 

When 3 o'clock came, Sybil set off with Pratt and arrived at the event as the masses were beginning to gather around the platform. Isobel was already there and standing off to the side. That's where Sybil herself was standing when the speakers began, but slowly, almost without noticing it herself, she began inching closer to the front, to hear and see better and to feel herself in the middle of things, just as she and Imogen had been in Hyde Park and just as she and Tom were when it was he who was with her at such events. By the time the third speaker began, she'd barely taken notice of how far from Isobel she'd strayed or how much more aggressive the crowd behind her had become.

The voice of the speaker, a reedy man with a pale complexion, grew louder and louder as he spoke and as the audience watching him began to heckle.

"Last June saw Emily Davison crushed to death beneath the hooves of the king's horse!" he cried. "Will the summer of 1914 prove as fatal for the hopes of women? It cannot! This historic by-election can be the first step of the journey to women's equality!"

"If you're so keen on women's rights, let a woman speak!"

Sybil turned to see the woman next to her pointing accusingly at the speaker, and smiled at her moxie.

A man behind them both was not so impressed, yelling, "But why stop there? Let's get the dogs up and listen to them bark!"

The speaker pressed on. "Women! Women . . . are thrown out of jail . . . only to be dragged back inside!"

"Are you all right, Sybil?"

Sybil turned and saw Isobel upon her. "Isn't it exciting?"

"Sybil, I think it's time for Pratt to take you home."

"Not yet," she said, turning back toward the platform.

"I think so," Isobel said. "I applaud your spirit in coming, and I will applaud your discretion when you leave." Isobel gestured to Pratt, who was standing at the edge of the crowd.

"But you agree with everything he says?" Sybil asked, turning back to Isobel.

"I do, my dear, but I also know if anything happens to you, Pratt will lose his place."

Sybil turned and saw Pratt approaching them, pushing his way through the crowd, looking a cross between amused and annoyed.

"You're right," Sybil said with a sigh. "I wish mama hadn't insisted on his presence. Then we could have stayed to the end."

Isobel smiled, shaking her head, amused at how thoroughly Sybil had immersed herself in this world in so short a time as to seem inoculated against its baser elements.

Once Pratt had reached them, Sybil and Isobel followed him out of the crowd. Sybil offered to take Isobel back to the village, an offer Isobel happily accepted. They continued to talk about what had been said that afternoon. Once the motor was on its way back to the house, Sybil, still keen on conversation, ventured a question to the chauffeur.

"Pratt, do you follow politics?"

Startled by the question, he wasn't sure what to say in response. "Not particularly, milady."

"Don't you find it interesting?"

"I don't really have a mind for it, and anyway, saying too much of such things can get you into trouble."

"Surely, neither his lordship nor Carson stifle political debate downstairs, do they?"

"I couldn't say, milady. I like to keep to the cottage—makes keeping the job a bit easier."

Sybil chuckled. "Very well. I won't torment you with more questions, but this won't be the last for us. The counting of the votes is coming, and that'll be even more exciting than today."

"The count? You'll want me to drive you?"

"Of course—unless you have other urgent work elsewhere."

"No, I reckon I probably won't," Pratt said with a sigh, already dreading the day.

When they made it past the gates, Sybil asked Pratt not to bother taking her to the door. She looked rather disheveled and didn't want to risk encountering her father in such a state and have to explain herself when she wasn't prepared for his likely line of questioning.

Going in through the front doors wouldn't have mattered, though. As Sybil was coming into the house, Robert was in the library, talking with Matthew, and wouldn't have noticed her. Matthew had come by to discuss estate business. It so happened that Matthew had lunch with his mother earlier that day, learned that she and Sybil were going to the rally together with Cora's permission, assumed that Sybil had told _both_ of the her parents of her plans and, in talking with Robert, inadvertently let something slip.

"Do you take any interest in the local politics?" Matthew asked.

"Not especially," Robert said. "Jarvis used to offer updates. He was always afraid the tenants were planning a revolution."

Matthew chuckled. "I suppose it's a good thing he and Tom didn't have to work together for very long."

"Is _he_ planning a revolution?"

Matthew laughed again. "If he is, it'll be quick and bloodless, and he wouldn't be alone in its offing. Mother has just as keen an interest in the Liberal Party."

"Does she?"

Matthew nodded. "She was looking forward to having company at the rally this afternoon."

"Who went with her?"

Immediately realizing that Robert had been kept in the dark, Matthew regretted having said anything at all.

"Well?" Robert pressed.

"I . . . I'm not sure, actually," Matthew said feebly.

"Matthew, who went with her?"

"Sybil."

Robert visibly stiffened.

"I should never have mentioned it," Matthew said. "I thought you knew."

Robert's expression and was one of distinct anger. "No, I did not know."

* * *

Despite how hurried she'd been getting back to the house, Sybil managed to get ready in time for dinner with Anna's help. And as the family settled into their seats, Matthew long gone back to Crawley house, the meal began innocuously enough. It wasn't until the soup course that Robert mentioned anything about the rally.

"I gather you went to hear the Liberal candidate today?" He asked in such a seemingly calm manner that Sybil wondered whether her mother had mentioned it and already gotten him used to the idea.

"There were several speakers, actually," Sybil answered. "He was the last."

Cora, Mary, Edith and Violet looked back and forth between Sybil and Robert as the conversation unfolded slowly and deliberately.

"Did he speak well?" Robert asked.

"I thought so."

"Were the masses calm for once, or did the usual brouhaha erupt?"

Sybil took a bite, suppressing a small smile. She could already tell his temper was flaring beneath the stoic exterior. "You know what these things can be like," she said finally.

"I do," Robert replied, no longer able or interested in keeping his frustration to himself. He slammed his utensils on his plate with such force that everyone in the room was startled. "Which is why I am astonished you should not feel it necessary to ask my permission to attend!"

Sybil sighed. "Papa—"

"I can only assume Tom put you up to this."

"No," Sybil said quickly. "It so happens that I am perfectly capable of choosing how I spend my time. In any case, I went with Isobel."

As if he'd not even heard Sybil, Robert continued, "I confess, I was amused by his socialism and radical inclinations, but I see now I have been naïve. Isobel, too, apparently. Did she not see the need to inform us as to this outing, if she was going to take our daughter and our chauffeur?"

"She told me, Robert," Cora said, finally putting a stop to his tirade. "I told Pratt to take Sybil."

Incensed, Robert looked at Cora as if she'd just confessed to stealing the crown jewels. "What are you saying!?"

Cora took a calming breath. "Sybil needed to go to Ripon. I asked Pratt to drive her. I thought it would be sensible, in case there was trouble."

"And there was _none_ ," Sybil said. "People did their heckling, but what else is there to expect when men are being asked to see women as their equals in society. And this was just a rally. There's canvassing as well. The by-election isn't far off."

Robert was about to respond, but Violet, equally agog, beat him to the punch. "Canvassing?" she exclaimed.

Sybil nodded. "Oh, it's quite safe. You're in a group and you knock on doors."

"Yes, I know what canvassing is," Violet said.

Feeling exasperated by the whole conversation, Mary tried to cut in. "I think that Sybil is—"

But Violet barely let her get those words out. "What? Are you canvassing, too? Or would you rather take in washing?"

"I was only going to say that Sybil is entitled to her opinions."

"No!" Violet insisted. "She isn't until she is married. Then her husband will tell her what her opinions are."

"Oh, Granny!" Mary said, trying to keep herself from laughing. If she weren't so loyal to her sister, Mary might have pointed out to her grandmother and her father that they would do to be careful what they wished for, given who her sister's likely choice of husband would be.

The irony of Violet's words were not lost on Cora either. Wasn't it Violet, herself, after all, the one who had awoken Cora to Sybil's feelings for Tom? It was bad enough that Robert was telling Cora off at dinner in front of the whole family, rather than wait and express his displeasure with her decision later that evening in the privacy of their bedroom, but here, too, was Violet chastising her and Sybil as if Violet hadn't told Cora that any attempt to match Sybil with a more appropriate suitor like Tom Bellasis would be wasted effort. Cora considered whether this meant that Violet was less inclined to approve a marriage between Tom and Sybil than she'd intimated in the past, or if she was merely being her usual contrary self.

After what felt like a long silence, Sybil looked up to her father and finally said, "I knew you wouldn't approve."

"Which presumably is why you all hid your plans from me," he replied.

"I wasn't hiding anything."

"Weren't you?"

"Not deliberately," Sybil said. "Not because I find enjoyment in making you angry because I don't. Honestly, papa."

Robert's shoulders drooped slightly and he sighed, not saying more. He was still upset—Sybil could see that—but he was conceding her point and acknowledging how much greater of a challenge it presented. Youthful rebellion for its own sake was one thing. Humbly and conscientiously arriving at a worldview that would put them at odds for the rest of their lives? That was something else altogether.

* * *

**The following afternoon**

"It's probably a good thing you didn't mention that you've been canvassing with the local suffragettes for the last two weeks."

Sybil snickered as Tom threw another rock into the creek. Sitting next to one another on the grass in their usual spot in the woods, for the last hour, Sybil had been telling Tom about the rally and the less than pleasant dinner that followed.

"I mentioned canvassing—that they chose to assume whatever it was they assumed is not my concern."

It was Tom's turn to laugh. "I'm almost sorry I missed it," he said, "but then if we'd been there it's possible your father would have turned me out then and there."

"He's just about turned on me, I think," Sybil said contemplatively.

Tom watched her for a moment. "Do you really think so?"

Sybil turned to Tom and shrugged. "I believe he's realized that trying to turn me into something that I am not—or rather, trying to pretend I am not exactly who I am—is a losing battle. I think he's disappointed in himself, but I wish he weren't. I quite like how I turned out."

Tom laughed watching the sparkle in her eyes as she said those words. "I do too."

Sybil blushed slightly, then looked down again. "It's not that I have no regard for his feelings or don't care what he thinks—I mean, I suppose it's true enough to say that I don't in so far as it won't make me change my own mind about anything, but I don't want him to hate me. And I think I'd quite like it if he told me he was proud. I don't need that, but it would be nice to hear."

"I'm sure it would be, and perhaps he may have it in him yet."

Sybil sighed. "I won't get my hopes up, but enough talk of papa, I wish you could have heard the orator. His manner was a bit rough and he didn't respond to the rowdier members of the audience particularly smoothly, but he spoke sense. You'd think a rallying cry for equality would be an easy sell for any speaker."

"You'd think, but in politics more than any other field, the quality of the messenger often makes or breaks the message."

Tom smiled as Sybil frowned at his words. "Imogen says the same with regard to image."

"She's right, I'm afraid. Such is the world we live in."

Sybil shook her head. "It's perfectly non-sensical. Women must get the vote, mustn't they? Why does the prime minister resist the inevitable?"

"Politicians can't often recognize the changes that are inevitable," Tom replied.

Sybil looked at him with a question in her eyes.

"What?" he said nervously.

"You should go into politics. You're frightfully clever, well-spoken and handsome, which is the most important piece of the puzzle, it would seem."

Tom laughed, then leaned over to knock his shoulder against hers. "You'd be a great politician yourself. All of what you said about me, also applies to you."

"Oh, but have you forgotten? I'm going to be a doctor."

Tom looked down, smiling shyly.

"Well?" Sybil prompted quietly.

"I have thought about it, actually," he finally admitted.

"Really?" Sybil said, her face lighting up.

"I don't know that I have the stomach for the worst bits, and . . ."

"And?"

"And if I do, it's not all about women and the vote for me, nor even freedom for Ireland. It's the gap between the aristocracy and the poor and . . ."

"And?" she repeated.

Tom sighed. "I'm sorry. If I get started I'll end up saying too much that sounds like an attack on your father and your family."

"But it's not an attack on them. I know you don't approve of papa, not as a representative of an oppressive class, but you don't dislike him as a person."

"No, he's a good man, and his willingness to bring the estate forward as Matthew and I have suggested shows him to be a conscientious employer, more so than most in his position, I'd say."

"Spoken like a true politician," Sybil said, laughing lightly. She leaned into Tom's shoulder and threaded his arm into his. "Papa doesn't dislike you either, no matter what he says. I think he'd even admit he admires you, if circumstances were different. You can reason with him, in spite of how much you disagree—that's a skill few people possess. You should consider where it could take you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Sybil smiled and placed a small kiss on his shoulder. "So what of the count?" she asked, changing the subject. You can't really mean you're not going."

"I'm overloaded with work, and even if I could it's a fairly predictable affair—the votes will be called out, someone will win, and if the outcome of this one is what it's likely to be, then the very nastiness that marred the last rally will come again full force."

Sybil furrowed her brow. "Where's your sense of adventure, darling?! And sense of duty? If I had the chance to vote, you can sure bet I'd be there to hear it called!"

Tom grinned. "Darling? I believe that's the first time you've used such an endearment with me!"

Sybil rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile. The word had rolled so easily off the tongue, she'd barely even noticed she'd said it. "You're getting off the point. I am going to the count, and if you don't want to, well, that's you, isn't it?"

"Getting into a fight isn't what I'd call an adventure," Tom said, standing up from his spot next to her.

"Who says you have to get into a fight?"

Tom scratched the back of his head. "It just might get messy, Sybil. Aunt Isobel isn't going and has warned me rather sternly against it, especially after hearing from Matthew as to Robert's reaction when it came to you. Not going doesn't speak to a lack of political will or commitment. It would speak to having common sense is all."

Sybil stood and walked over to where he was standing, a few feet away. "Do you think I have none?"

Tom smiled and moved his hand up to her cheek. "I think you have it in spades, and this would be a perfect time to deploy it."

Sybil looked down. "It's just . . . now that my eyes have been opened and I know what I want my life to be I don't want to miss a moment. However naive people may think me."

"You won't miss anything—not with eyes as wide open as yours are. I promise."

With that Tom bent his head down to give her a kiss, which Sybil happily accepted.

"I will also admit," he said after they had pulled away, "that I don't want to give Robert another reason to be annoyed with me."

"Please," Sybil said with a smile, "you live to annoy him."

Tom laughed, "No, my darling, _you_ live to annoy him. Despite his illusions to the contrary, I'm not the rebel in this outfit. Unlike you, I've always been mindful of my parents."

"You were blessed with less intransigent ones."

As she walked back to the house later, Sybil hadn't made her mind up about what she wanted to do. She loved Tom more than anything, and loved his influence on her, but even he knew well that it was her own mind that she kept.

And if she wanted to hear the counting of the votes, it would be _she_ , and not anyone else, who would decide.

So when she did decide to go, just days before the event, she also decided not to tell anyone. Her reasons for wanting to go were her own, and Sybil didn't believe she owed them to anyone. It didn't help that her father remained testy and dismissive of her in the days that followed the rally. Perhaps if he'd been understanding, Sybil might reason with him. As it was—Crawley father, like Crawley daughter—stubbornness ruled the day. Stubbornness that flowed as easily as the blood they shared and made them more alike in temperament than either would ever be willing to admit.

Given that state of things, when Sybil approached her father about having Pratt take her to Ripon, she did so as calmly and gently as she'd spoken to him in some time.

"Papa," she said, "Can Pratt drive me into Ripon on Friday evening?"

Barely looking up from his desk, Robert answered quickly. "I don't think so, no. Not after the last time."

Sybil squeezed together her hands, which she was holding behind her back. "Oh, please. There's a meeting of my borstal charity. I've missed two, and I simply must be there."

"You'd have to take Mary or Edith with you," Robert replied.

"Don't make me—those meetings are deadly at the best of times, and you know what they're like when they're bored," Sybil said, all the while thinking that he wouldn't spot the lie hidden in a statement so thoroughly true.

Indeed, Robert didn't question Sybil's reasoning for wanting to go on her own. Instead, he asked, "Why are all your causes so steeped in gloom?"

"Because it's the gloomy things that need our help," she said, speaking honestly again. "If everything in the garden's sunny, why meddle?"

"Well, I agree with that," Robert said. He didn't say the words, but Sybil knew he'd given in. Robert regarded Sybil carefully—to the point that Sybil began to feel a bit self-conscious under his stare.

"Talking of sunny," he said, "are you looking forward to your coming season?"

"I am, rather," Sybil answered immediately, even before realizing that this was also not a lie. She _was_ looking forward to it. She had no interest in the ritual of it or what it represented, except as a manifestation of a system that she was coming to realize she wanted no part of. But even so, she'd come to think of her debut as a way to cast herself off from that system. She'd be making her introduction to society and in the same breath say goodbye to it. And she'd share it all with her close friend and the man she loved, whom she'd finally acknowledge as such to her family.

Yes, she was looking forward to it. One could even say she couldn't wait.

With all this in her mind, she said to Robert, "I imagine that I've not gone about everything to prepare like Mary or Edith did—"

"I agree with that, as well," Robert interrupted with something of a smirk, which made Sybil smile.

"Even so, if I think of it as a time to be with those I love most and enjoy the company of friends, then I do think I'll enjoy myself quite well."

"Good," Robert said.

Biting her lip, Sybil pressed her point. "So, it's all right? I can go?"

"Will you be late?"

"I think I'll miss dinner."

"Well, remember to tell Pratt to take a sandwich for himself."

Robert went back to his writing and with a small smile, Sybil turned to go.

* * *

Pratt gave a sigh as the motor approached the pavilion. Already, the crowd could be seen jostling and heckling from beyond the gate.

"Last chance to change your mind, milady," he said, bringing the car to a stop. "I really don't like the look of it."

Having ordered the car herself, Sybil hadn't bothered to fill the chauffeur in on the fact that Robert thought he'd be taking her somewhere else. Her intention was not to cause trouble for him, so she had every intention of speaking up on his behalf if it came to that. As he pulled the motor over, a part of her felt a tiny bit nervous, but the rest of her was too thrilled to go back now.

"Just leave me here," Sybil said, hopping out quickly. "I'll be back in short order."

"Milady, you don't think you'll be going in there by yourself? I'll park just there and come along."

"It's very gallant of you, but I'll go in and just wait for you there," Sybil said and, without letting Pratt get another word in, hopped out of the car and hurried over to the event. The crowd was certainly denser and more lively than they had been for the final rally, but if there was to be trouble, it didn't yet appear that the troublemakers had arrived. The tallying of the votes had already begun, but the cries of the official could scarcely be heard over all the noise.

Sybil pushed in to get closer to the front and hadn't gone in but five feet or so when she came upon a set of very familiar shoulders in front of her. She laughed at the thought that despite everyone's protestations, including Tom's, Sybil couldn't help but attend and neither—apparently—could he. Coming up behind him, she grabbed at his waist playfully, which startled him.

"OH!" Tom exclaimed, assuming it was a stranger invading his personal space—not that there was much to be had here, with so many people in such close proximity. When he turned and saw that it was Sybil, his eyes widened in alarm and (it couldn't be helped) affectionate pride.

"What are you doing here!?" he said, no bothering to hide the exasperation from his tone. "I thought we agreed you'd not come."

"No, you suggested I not come, but after due consideration, I decided to anyway. You didn't think I'd miss my very first by-election? Besides I could ask _you_ what you're doing here, Mr. I-always-mind-Aunt-Isobel-when-she-tells-me-not-to-do-things!"

"My office is just there he said, pointing behind Sybil. I thought that I'd stop by briefly to fill you in on everything later."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "So you get to be in the middle of it all, while I dutifully watch from a safe distance? How wonderfully patronizing of you."

Tom couldn't help but smile. "That is patronizing, and I am sorry. I just . . . we're so close to June and . . . you know _his lordship_ would not approve. And I don't say that because I think he's right—only because I don't want to wreck things when we're so close."

"I understand, but at the end of the day, we're _telling_ him about us, not asking, so there's really nothing to risk."

Tom's smile softened, acknowledging to himself how lucky he was to be loved by a woman so strong in her convictions even while still so young. She was the bravest person he knew—even when that bravery walked ever so close to the boundary that separated bravery and foolhardiness. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a deep kiss, neither minding the incongruence of the setting or the propriety of the act in such a public setting.

Neither of them noticed Pratt coming up behind them, and just as he'd wished he hadn't been pulled into Lady Sybil's white lie to her father, he desperately wished he hadn't been the one to witness an embrace that even he was clever enough to know would shake the whole family. Secrets, after all, have a way of getting out—even when those who are inadvertently made privy to them do everything to avoid being the one through whom the come to light.

Once Tom and Sybil had separated again, Pratt approached and tapping Sybil gently on the shoulder said, "If you've seen enough, milady, I reckon we can call it a day."

Tom was happy to see Pratt and prepared to follow his lead. "He's right, Sybil. There's not much more to see. We should go."

"Don't be silly," she said. "This is the moment we've come for."

The three felt a push forward from the crowd behind them. Tom turned and saw a group of men—angry by the look of it—jumping off a lorry and coming into the pavilion. The event was taking a turn, and Tom suddenly knew they needed to be gone and fast.

"This lot's not interested in politics, Sybil," Tom insisted. "They're spoiling for a fight. They've announced the Tory as the winner, so it's done."

Sybil sighed, turning to see the men staring to make trouble among the crowd. "All right, then."

Pratt turned and began to push the crowd off to make room for Sybil to walk directly behind him and Tom behind her. He took a roundabout route to the front, in an effort to avoid the troublemakers, so it was not without considerable effort, but they made it back to the gate all in one piece.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief, and Pratt pointed to the end of the street where he'd left the car.

"The motor is just there, milady," he said, signaling so she could walk ahead of him.

But just as she stepped forward off the walk and into the street a young man in a bicycle streamed by knocking her sideways. The impact was sudden and hard, not leaving either Tom or Pratt any time to break her fall, which ended with her head against the edge of the walk.

Tom was at her side immediately. Pratt had tried to give the young man chase, but the young man was up and on his bicycle again within seconds, pedaling with all his might away from the scene.

Tom turned Sybil over quickly, and his heart fell into his stomach as he saw that she was unconscious.

"Oh, please God, no!" he exclaimed as he drew her into his arms and ran to where the motor was parked. Without needing to be told twice, Pratt was in the driver's seat and pulling away.

"To Crawley House," Tom said, "and for God's sake hurry!"

* * *

"Is she going to be all right?"

Tom was pacing behind the sofa in the parlor, where Sybil lay, drifting in and out of consciousness. Kneeling on the floor next to her, Isobel was gently wiping away the blood from the small cut on Sybil's forehead.

"She'll have quite a headache tomorrow," Isobel said with a sigh, "but the cut should heal."

Tom nodded and rubbed his teary eyes with the heels of his hands.

Matthew stepped into the room and said, "Pratt's off to fetch Mary. I've told him not to involve Robert or Cora if he can help it."

"Well, accidents happen," Isobel said with a sigh, "but I can't say they'll see it that way."

"Is it now fair to ask what you were possibly thinking taking her there?" Matthew asked.

Tom threw his head back in exasperation. "I _didn't_ take her. I never would have done it. Believe it or not, I warned her not to go. She went on her own, fed Robert a story about a charity committee meeting. And anyway this didn't even happen at the count. It was after we'd left—it could have happened at any other time."

"Mother is right, though," Matthew said. "The fact that she was there after Robert forbid her not to go is all that will matter."

"Well, there's nothing to be done about it now," Tom said with a frustrated sigh. "I just want her to be all right. I'll take whatever lumps Robert has to offer."

"She'll be fine," Isobel said, standing up. "I'll go fetch some smelling salts. That'll help her come to."

Tom walked over to the sofa and kneeled at the spot Isobel had just vacated. As gently as he could, he brushed a few stray hairs of Sybil's face. Matthew watched from across the room and couldn't help but be endeared by just how much Tom loved Sybil. It was as if the sentiment radiated from him. Tom always wore his heart on his sleeve, never making any attempt to hide what he thought or felt. And Sybil matched him in this regard, so unlike her family.

The feeling of dread that had come over Matthew when Tom hurried into the house with the injured Sybil in his arms intensified.

This was going to be bad. Matthew knew that much, and he could tell that Tom did as well.

There was no way around it. The summer in London they'd all been looking forward to had changed suddenly. The only thing that remained to be seen was _how_ exactly it would change—and what relationships would survive or be wrecked by the end of it.

A quarter of an hour later, a distressed Mary came into the Crawley House parlor. Sybil still lay on the sofa, with Isobel continuing to nurse her head wound, but Sybil was awake now, if a bit groggy.

"My God. Oh, my darling," Mary said.

Tom spoke up first. "I didn't know what to do, so I had Pratt bring her here."

"Quite right," Mary said, still looking down at her sister, who'd met Mary's eyes when she came in with a small apologetic smile. "Mama would have fainted if she'd seen her like this. As for Papa . . . "

Sybil looked away at the mention of her father. Her head hurt too much to think about him, right now.

Looking at Tom with clear frustration in her eyes, Mary said, "I could wring your neck, you know."

"Mary, he didn't—" Matthew tried to intervene, but Mary wasn't having it.

"Don't tell me you didn't know she was planning this!" Mary said to Tom, stepping over Matthew's words.

Tom shook his head, but Mary seemed skeptical. "I didn't. I swear it. I knew she wanted to go, but I didn't know she actually planned to do so."

"Well, what were _you_ doing there?" Isobel asked. "I thought you said you weren't going either."

Tom rubbed his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "I was working late, and after I left the office, I saw people gathering . . . it was a whim nothing more, but I was grateful to have acted on it when I saw her there."

"I'm grateful too," Sybil said, her voice sounding small. "Mary, it was a simple accident. It wasn't Tom's fault."

"But, darling, you shouldn't have been there at all," Mary said, her voice softening.

"Well, Tom didn't have anything to do with that either. You must understand—papa, won't, I know, but can _you_ please try?"

Mary let out a sigh, relieved in some measure that despite the injury Sybil seemed to have her mental faculties about her. Mary looked back at Tom and offered a small smile of apology, to which he responded with his own.

"What I wonder is what Pratt was thinking?" Matthew said. "Regardless of what Robert will say to Sybil or Tom, it may also cost him his job."

"He was only taking an order from me. He spent the whole drive there trying to talk me out of it."

"You'll have to stick up for him," Mary said. "Him and Tom both."

Sybil moved to sit up with Isobel's help.

"Are you ready to go home?" Tom asked.

Sybil nodded and took his arm to stand.

"Here, wear my coat to cover the blood," Mary said, draping it over Sybil's shoulders. "You'll look more normal."

Leaning on Tom and Isobel, Sybil made her way to the door, leaving Mary and Matthew alone in the parlor for a moment.

"Let us know how she gets on," Matthew said.

Mary nodded. "It'll be a long night."

"Robert strikes me as one whose bark is worse than his bite, especially when it comes to his daughters . . . that is if you don't mind me saying it."

"You're right on that account, but Tom is not one of his daughters."

The expression made Matthew laugh.

"You know what I meant," Mary said, rolling her eyes but blushing slightly.

"I think Tom and Robert will survive this too. Neither one is as unreasonable as he thinks the other."

"Well, I suppose we'll each have a sibling with a bruised temperament to see to before it's all over," Mary said.

"We should compare notes some other time."

Mary smiled. "Good night," she said, finally stepping out of the room.

When she made it to the motor outside, she was surprised to see Tom sitting in the back with Sybil. "You're coming with us?"

"Do you think it wise to avoid the executioner?" Tom asked sardonically.

"No, I suppose not," Mary said climbing in.

"Honestly, you two," Sybil said, "I realize papa will be upset, but you're making more of this than he will."

"I don't think we are, Sybil," Mary said.

"What is the worst he could do? Forbid me from doing the season? That would be rather a relief."

A thought entered Mary's mind, but for the sake of not worrying Sybil further, she held her tongue. Looking over at Tom, Mary met his eyes and realized the same thought had occurred to him.

* * *

"HOW DARE YOU?! How dare you disobey me in this way!"

Robert could barely contain his anger, confronting Sybil almost as if smoke was coming from his ears.

She sat on the edge of her bed, looking down but nor repentant. Next to her, Cora had her hand on Sybil's shoulder, and Mary and Edith stood in the corner of the room, just inside the door. Sybil might have minded that she had to be told off like this, in front of the whole family, but she knew her mother and sisters were there to support her.

In that vein, Cora spoke in an effort to placate her husband, "Robert, I'm sure—"

But he pushed past her words, continuing to address Sybil at such a volume that Tom, standing alone in the gallery downstairs could hear just about every word. "Are you so knowledgeable about the great world that my instructions are to be set as nothing?!"

Sybil did not begrudge him his anger, but she's just about had it with the puffed-up display of it. Standing, she said forcefully, "Papa, I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but I'm interested! I'm political! I have opinions!"

"Of course, I blame Tom," Robert said, finally lowering his volume.

"I don't think that's fair," Mary said quickly.

Robert's brow furrowed angrily once again, this time his glare directed at his eldest daughter. "We had none of this— _none of it_ —until he set foot in our house! I suppose I should give thanks he hasn't burnt the place down over our heads!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sybil exclaimed. "He didn't know anything about my going until we arrived there!"

Sybil's tone raised Robert's ire again. "I don't care what his relationship with Matthew and Isobel is, he's done having dinners under my roof."

"If you forbid him from coming here, I'll never speak to you again! NEVER!"

Something about the way Sybil set her shoulders back and thrust out her chin, making her cut and the blood that had dried against side of her face more visible—all of it made Robert realize that behind her obvious youthful ardor was a sincerity of conviction that frightened him. He'd spoken out of temper just now, without any thought to carrying through with his threat about banishing Tom, but looking at Sybil now, Robert could see that she would have every intention of carrying through with hers. And whatever kind of relationship he and Sybil were meant to have as father and daughter, now or in the future, however contentious, Robert didn't want to lose her completely.

Seeing regret in his eyes in that moment, Mary spoke up again, hoping to smooth things over. "I don't believe this is Tom's fault. Truly, Papa."

"Blame me," Sybil said, more quietly, but no less determined.

"I do blame you!" Robert snapped back.

"Robert, can we do this in the morning?" Cora cut in. "Sybil needs rest."

"I don't care to continue this in the morning," Robert said, an air of defeat to his voice. "It's finished as far as I am concerned."

He moved toward the door, and Sybil stepped forward quickly. "Papa, please don't cast him out. Please understand this wasn't his fault. It wasn't Pratt's fault either. I lied to them both about going, just as I did with you. Then, I was just in an unlucky accident."

"Unlucky," Robert said, wearily. "I should say so."

"Tom doesn't deserve this," Sybil said.

"Fine, he's not unwelcome here, but he's not coming to London next month."

With that Robert crossed the room to the door and left, closing it firmly behind him.

Sybil brought her hands to her face and might have fallen to the floor in a mess of tears had Mary and Edith not run forward to catch her. With Cora's help they set her on the side of the bed again, now audibly sobbing.

" _I_ won't go if he's not going," she said, between cries.

Cora sat next to her and put her hand on her back. "There, there, dear," she whispered, but even to Cora herself, the words felt empty. Here, clearer than she had ever seen it, was evidence that Sybil's heart was set, that no effort by Cora, no matter how grand, would succeed in dislodging Tom from his place there. All of which meant that this night was only the beginning. The discord between Robert and Sybil would be deep and possibly lifelong. Her duty as wife and mother would be to minimize it, and she easily recognized that it was no small task.

"Sybil, darling," she said, "don't think about all that now—"

"Mama," Mary interrupted, "Let me."

Cora sighed. She stood reluctantly, heading to the door, gesturing to Edith that she follow.

Once they were alone, Mary took Cora's spot next to Sybil, whose tears were beginning to subside.

"So far as punishments go, it could be worse," Mary said.

Sybil took a long, deep calming breath. "Of course you would say that."

"Sybil, you can't pretend that you didn't do something wrong. If you had only listened to papa and not gone to Ripon, none of this would have happened, but you did and now there are consequences to be faced. It's only a month. Then we'll be back here for the annual garden party, and then there's the cricket match in the autumn, and papa will be so eager for Tom to play"—Sybil giggled at this in spite of herself—"that he'll have forgotten all about it, and our lives will go on as if none of it happened."

"I chose my dress because I thought Tom would like it," Sybil said after a long silence. "Silly, isn't it?"

"No, not at all."

"Now he won't even see it."

"Sybil—"

"It's all right, Mary. I won't fight it. I just . . . those ridiculous rituals. They're not for me, you know that. But I don't think I realized until just now that I was genuinely excited for it all because he'd be with me. You're right that it's not the worst punishment in the world, but as it happens, it comes rather close."

Mary pulled Sybil into a hug. "I won't pretend that it'll be what you hoped, but I'll find a way to make it memorable."

Sybil pulled back with a wry expression on her face. "How will you manage that?"

Mary smiled. "Just leave it to me."

* * *

After he'd left Sybil's room, with every step he took downstairs, Robert felt the air coming out of his sails, a ship captain no longer in charge of charting his own course, but resigned to leave his fate to the elements around him. Robert was no longer angry, only weary.

Tom stood from the chair he'd been sitting in as he heard Robert approach.

"Is she all right?"

"Given how ready she was to argue with me, I would say so."

Tom laughed, a bit uneasily. Taking a breath, he said, "I'm very sorry—truly. I know you think me the architect of her political interests, but I never meant for her to be in any danger."

"Did you mean for her to lie to me?"

"I think that's all best left between you and her. . . . I'll willingly accept any fault you want to lay at my feet about what happened today, but I will say that I don't think it's wrong for her to have the interests she has."

"I'm too tired for a philosophical debate about parenting or politics, so I'll just say goodnight."

Tom seemed taken aback that Robert didn't have more to say, but what else could be said?

Just as Robert was turning to go back up the stairs, he turned to Tom again. "I've decided that only family should be with us in London. I believe it's for the best."

Tom shoulders drooped slightly, but he nodded. Robert's meaning was not lost on him, and while being disinvited to Sybil's ball did sting, Robert's actual words cut a much deeper wound.

_Only family._

"Very well," Tom said, looking to the floor with a contriteness that surprised Robert.

"Join us for dinner tomorrow," Robert heard himself say, "you, Matthew and Isobel."

"Are you sure?" Tom asked, looking up again.

Robert smiled ruefully. "A man in my position can no longer be sure of anything, it seems."


	48. The Presentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part I of the London season, with more still to come before we go back to Downton for the fateful garden party and the declaration of war. A few things before we start: If you remember Rose's presentation on the show, please note that (1) those scenes were actually shot in Lancaster House, and what I describe here is Buckingham Palace so it will be different and (2) the year Rose is presented is 1924, a full decade after Sybil, including four years of a war that shook the country's social foundation, so the debutante fashion that we saw in that episode was of a totally different era and totally unlike what I've written about. Lastly, something involving Imogen happens the day of her and Sybil's presentation that probably requires a measure of willing suspension of disbelief. I hope it's enjoyable in any case. As realistic as I hope my writing seems, the truth is I don't know a ton about the period and setting I am writing about and it's replete with historical errors for all I know. This is all done in good fun in any case.

"Are you happy, milady?"

"Pardon?"

"The dress."

Sybil looked down her front and then back up to the standing mirror in front of her, but Madame Bernard spoke up again before Sybil had a chance to say anything. "Beautiful, I think—well, if I may say so myself."

Sybil couldn't help but smile as her dressmaker looked at her with a bit of a sheepish expression before continuing to fuss around her, clearly proud of her creation.

And it _was_ beautiful.

Sybil had tried the dress on at various stages, but today was the day, and it was as if the fabric just _knew_ it would be in the presence of royalty, the way its threads shimmered resplendently. Perhaps the reason she was wearing it was ridiculous, but the work that had been put into it was not. Sybil wouldn't begrudge Madame Bernard pride in the effort and care she had put in.

"It's lovely, madame," she said quietly, "I feel rather an unsuitable model for your workmanship, but—"

"Oh, nonsense, Lady Sybil," she said coming around to face Sybil and tilting Sybil's chin up with her hand. "It is perfectly suited for you, as that is how I approach all my creations. It begins with the wearer. Do not lack for confidence in wearing it, for it is intended to give you just that."

Sybil smiled and thought of Imogen, who'd no doubt agree with the sentiment. Sybil hadn't seen much of her dear friend in the past week since the family's arrival in London, due mostly to the fact that Sybil—still smarting over Tom's exclusion from the festivities—had barely left her room here. But Sybil would see Imogen soon enough. This afternoon's presentation before their majesties and the supper that followed would officially launch the season. Robert and Cora had mostly tip-toed around Sybil since the night of the count last month, lest another row disturb the quiet peace that had settled in the days that had followed it. But Sybil knew that after today, it was unlikely they would allow her to continue to keep to herself and her medical books.

This morning, in fact, Cora had woken her up with a list of events and parties Sybil had already been invited to and Cora's own plans for Grantham House, barely letting Sybil have a moment to herself before Madame Bernard had arrived just after luncheon with Sybil's presentation dress and shooed everyone out of the room to dress her.

The skirt was a long column overlaid with hand-embroidered lace. From her waist, which was cinched with a thick sash of ivory satin inlaid with tiny pearls, two swaths of material crossed her upper torso, created a V at her neck, and came over her shoulders and upper arms to join again at the back, before flaring out into a chapel-length train. It wasn't the fanciest dress she'd ever made, but Madame Bernard had to admit it was one of her favorites, especially now that she was seeing it on so beautiful a figure.

Looking back at herself in the mirror now, Sybil did like what she saw. Madame had taken Sybil's notes on her preferences (primarily dictated by what would make Sybil most comfortable) and not added too many embellishments, knowing that of the three Crawley daughters, Sybil most favored the kind of elegance achieved through simplicity.

"And are you quite comfortable?"

Sybil laughed lightly. "As comfortable as one can be wearing a corset."

Madame Bernard laughed at Sybil's joke and walked over to the door. "Let's see what mama thinks."

Given that Cora was also getting dressed, it took several minutes for her to return with the dressmaker, which gave Sybil the chance to walk over to the end table next to her bed. She opened the top drawer, where she'd left her diary that morning. She flipped through its pages until she found what she was looking for, a loose slip of paper with a short message written on it.

_Dearest Sybil, Tell the king "hello" for me. Yours always, Tom_

Sybil smiled sadly, kissed the paper, then folded it back up and tucked it into the top of her corset. She'd just finished doing that when she heard her mother coming in.

"So . . . let's see the final product," Cora said, stepping into the room. Sybil turned and Cora let out an audible gasp. "Oh, my darling!" Cora stepped forward and held out her hands as she approached Sybil, setting them on Sybil's shoulders. Cora's eyes were watering.

"Mama, it's just a nice dress," Sybil said, quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed by her mother's show of emotion, not because she didn't appreciate it, but because she couldn't muster the amount of feeling it would take to match it. Sybil was a good, conscientious daughter who in rare moments even wished that she could care more about the things that were important to her parents. Just now, as she felt the pride radiating from her mother's wet eyes, she wished that again.

"It's not the dress," Cora said, with a smile. "This moment may not mean much to you, my darling, but it means everything to me. You haven't been a child for a long time, but as long as you were holed up on your own at Downton these past summers I could still think of you that way. No more."

Sybil smiled and, taken by the sentiment, moved to hug her mother, but Cora stepped back before Sybil could.

"Not yet," Cora said, "we don't want wrinkles."

Sybil laughed and rolled her eyes. As Cora moved back toward the door, Sybil saw that O'Brien had followed her in. Dutifully, Sybil sat at the vanity for the hair-pulling she knew she would have to endure at the lady's maid hands. O'Brien worked quickly and wordlessly—so different in manner than Anna, who at least seemed to enjoy what she was doing whenever she made up Sybil's hair. But according to Cora, O'Brien had more practiced hands, so when Sybil had been told that morning who would be doing her hair and putting in the feathered headpiece that would complete her ensemble, Sybil made no argument. And sure enough, O'Brien was done in no time and barely looked at Sybil before leaving again. Sybil wondered momentarily if there was something bothering O'Brien that would have her behave even more dourly than usual, but she didn't linger on it long because as soon as her gloves were on, her father was knocking on her door.

He was in full military regalia and looked imposing and handsome, just as she imagined he looked in the days he was a young military man. Sybil could also see wrinkles at the sides of his eyes that remained there now, even when he wasn't smiling. She stood in the middle of the room waiting for him to say something or to well up like her mother had done. But there was none of that. Instead, he merely held out his arm for her. Sybil stepped forward and took it. Just before stepping out into the hall again, he put his hand over Sybil's in the crook of his arms and held it there for a moment.

Sybil put her hand over his. "Truce?" she asked quietly.

Robert looked over at her and didn't think too long before answering. "Truce."

"Let's get on with it, then," she said. "Apparently, adulthood awaits me on the other side."

Robert tried but couldn't hold back the smile that formed on his face at her sarcasm.

The staircase of Grantham House was not so grand as the one at Downton, but even so, as Sybil and Robert made their way to the bottom, the sight of her family and the servants gathered to see her off did tug at her heart. If she were going off to university or even just to get married, she might have shed a tear or two. As it was, she could only make light of it.

"Look at all this. You'd think something important was happening," she joked.

Violet pursed her lips and exhaled loudly through her nose. "Can't you stop being yourself for a single minute and just enjoy life for once."

Sybil grinned. "I'll try, but I make no promises."

Violet looked into Sybil's eyes for a long moment, then put her hand on Sybil's shoulder. "Go on, my dear. I'll see you when it's done."

However small, it was a display of affection from a woman from whom such things were extremely rare.

"Thank you, granny," Sybil said quietly before she and Robert, with Cora now behind them, moved on past Mary and Edith, then Isobel. Seeing her, Sybil's smile dimmed slightly, knowing that Tom and Matthew were meant to be standing there with her. Tom, of course, had stayed home at Robert's request, and after finding out, Matthew decided to stay as well and only join the family for Sybil's ball, not the entire month they'd be gone, as had been originally planned. (An increasing workload was his excuse, but Mary suspected that Matthew had done it out of loyalty to Tom. She was right, of course, but never confirmed it with him knowing Matthew was too considerate to ever admit he questioned or disagreed with her father's judgment when it came to dealing with Tom and Sybil.)

Sybil didn't have long to ponder their absence. As they reached the door, Anna handed Sybil her bouquet and set a small white stole over Sybil's shoulders. Madame Bernard quickly stepped around Cora to lift up Sybil's train, with Anna also coming up to help so the dress would not touch the ground as Sybil made her way down the house's front stairs to the waiting motor. Once settled in, with Cora and Sybil in the back and Robert facing them, Pratt set off.

The drive was a short one, from St. James Square, the car turned onto Pall Mall toward Trafalgar Square. As they circled the statue of Charles I, Sybil saw that somehow, they'd joined a line of other motors carrying families and daughters just like herself and her parents. One by one, each of the vehicles turned onto The Mall for the slow procession toward Buckingham Palace. On each side of the street onlookers waved. Sybil found it a funny thing to celebrate, the acknowledgement by the ruling monarch of a handful of women deemed "worthy" of the distinction. Not heads of state, not captains of industry, not published writers, nor women who'd excelled in fields like science or medicine, as she hoped to someday. Not even merely women of strong opinion with something of their minds to give to the king. Just women expected to marry well.

 _Not even women really,_ Sybil thought. _Just girls—why should this, of all possible achievements in our lives, be met by cheering crowds?_

But Sybil thought then of Tom, and what he would say. _Do not blame the subjects for their worship of a system that is cruel to them. Blame the cunning of the rulers for creating it—and use your own cunning against them to bring it down._

She grinned at the thought without really noticing that she was doing so. Her parents noticed, though, and they smiled at each other, hopeful that perhaps she'd turned a corner and was ready to make of this month what was necessary.

"Here we are," Robert said as the motor came to a stop for them to disembark before moving on to make room for the next.

"You don't seem nervous," Cora said as they made their way in.

"I suppose I'm not," Sybil answered. "Should I be?"

"No," her mother said, "but I always am. I was for my own presentation and Mary and Edith's as well. But then you're much more poised than I am."

"I wouldn't say that, but thank you."

Mother, father and daughter followed the line of debutantes walking ahead of them and guided by what seemed to Sybil like legions of stewards at every corner. At some point, before Sybil could even come to a stop, someone took her and her mother's stoles. The procession continued toward the Grand Staircase, and it was there that the moment truly grabbed hold of Sybil. She slowed her walk as her eyes, widening in awe, took in the beauty and grandiosity of the setting. It was like looking into an open illustrated book that told a version of her country's history—a version written by the conquering people. This wasn't just a palace. It was the residence of the monarch, her head of state. Decisions that affected millions across the world were made inside these walls.

Again, she felt ridiculous in the face of the smallness of the purpose her visit. She turned toward her father and saw that he'd been watching her.

"Now we have to go our separate ways," he said.

Sybil looked up to see that at the first landing, the men were continuing forward up to another staircase while the women were turning to continue on this one.

"I'll be in the Throne Room to see you when it's your turn, but you must first wait in the Green Drawing Room so you and your mother may be announced. I'll come through the galleries."

"Seems a lot of ground to cover for a one-sided exchange that lasts merely seconds," Sybil said.

"Nonsense," Robert said. "Onwards to the breach."

Sybil smiled. Her father was clearly in his element but seemed to know that standing this was all something of a battle for his daughter.

Continuing up the stairs with her mother, Sybil said, "I wish Mary and Edith could be here too."

"I'm sure Mary would have loved to share this with you," Cora said. "She certainly let me know how uninterested she was in going to Sir Anthony's tonight when I told her she had to accompany her sister. But Isobel will be with them too. They'll have a fine time together."

"I dare say—," Sybil began, but Cora stopped her immediately.

"Do _not_ say you would rather be there, even if you are thinking it."

Sybil chuckled at her mother's playful tone and wondered if Cora's teasing and her father's use of military imagery was admission on their part, however subtle, that they understood her, or at least were starting to try.

"Granny will be joining us for the supper here, and anyway, we'll all be together next week for your ball."

Sybil stiffened as soon as Cora spoke the words, and Cora too immediately wished that she hadn't put it in quite that way because, sure enough, they wouldn't all be together.

"Mama—"

"I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean to say that Tom wasn't—"

"One of us?"

Cora smiled sadly. "I know you miss him."

Sybil looked ahead considering the wisdom of trying to explain to her mother that "miss" barely made the mark in terms of what she was feeling. She chose another tack. "Do you think maybe . . . perhaps papa will change his mind about the ball? It's not too late."

Cora sighed. "I'd rather not stir those waters, Sybil."

Sybil couldn't say more just then because they'd reached the top of the stairs and the entry to the guard room, where Cora handed her card to the steward and introduced herself and Sybil, who by now had stopped bothering trying to look like she cared to be there.

"The Countess of Grantham presenting the Lady Sybil Crawley," she said. The man nodded solemnly and they stepped into the small crowded room. Cora guided Sybil into a corner.

"Darling, I know Tom is your dear friend."

"No, mama, I don't think you do," Sybil replied.

"There are other things to consider."

"Things I do not care one whit about!"

"There will be others at the ball who you should meet and spend your time with before you make any sort of decision."

"I don't want anyone else," Sybil said, as forcefully as she could while still whispering. "You may as well know it now. I have half a mind to stage a protest and not go myself."

Cora let out a long frustrated breath and looked around. "Darling, please, let's just get though this and we'll talk more."

Sybil sighed. She wasn't sure if she really heard compromise in her mother's voice, but she had made her point well enough. Even if Tom still wouldn't be present, she wouldn't let her mother turn her month in London into a matchmaking spree. "I don't want to fight, mama, not now or later, but that means you mustn't treat me like I'm a problem you have to solve."

"Darling, I wish you wouldn't think that's how I see you. I just worry . . . I want you well-settled and taken care of. Can you blame me? I'm your mother."

"I'm happy. Will that do to ease your worries?"

"There you are!"

Cora and Sybil both turned on hearing Imogen's unmistakable voice, their discussion over for the time being.

"Oh, darling, don't you look marvelous!" Imogen said excitedly as she approached. "Can you believe the day has come?"

"Hello, Imogen," Cora said, "Don't you look lovely. Where's your mother?"

"Over there, talking to Lady Susan Darlington," Imogen said, pointing to where Lady Priscilla was standing next to a woman who looked, to Sybil, to be about Violet's age. "She's presenting her grandniece, whose mother passed away a few years ago. Lady Susan told mama and me that she's not one for the tedium of court life these days, seeing how politically involved she's become and has hardly the time or patience for it, but she supposed she'd make an exception for Miss . . . oh, golly, I've forgotten her name, and I can understand, with the tragedy of her mother's death. Well, I don't know whether the death itself was specifically tragic, but surely we can agree that there's no other word for losing a mother so young regardless of the circumstances. In any case, I'm glad she's here—Lady Susan, I mean—conversation with her around is always interesting. And so many lords here, I'm sure she's chomping at the bit to give some of them a piece of her mind about the women's vote."

"Well, I should go say hello," Cora said, "and be sure to steer Robert clear of Lady Susan."

Cora shot one more glance at Sybil, but Imogen had already begun talking again, and Cora figured that, most likely, the only way left to get Sybil to enjoy the day was to leave her with her friend. And, indeed, what Imogen said next served to make Sybil smile genuinely for the first time since stepping into the palace and feel glad that she wasn't there alone: "I hope you don't want to powder your nose, because all we've got is a chamber pot behind that screen."

Sybil laughed. "I should be very glad that there's something to remind us all that this silly artifice doesn't make us any less human."

"Court life is nothing if not wholly glamorous," Imogen said with a snicker, making Sybil laugh again. "I'm glad you're laughing, darling, I saw that you seemed to be in a very serious discussion with your mother. I thought the interruption might be welcome."

"It wasn't serious, really, just her wanting to show me off to all of London's eligible men when I've all but made it clear that I'll have none of them over Tom. I'm glad you came to save me, and that you're here today. I don't think I could bare it without you."

"Nor I without you," Imogen said, taking Sybil's hand and squeezing it. "You can't imagine all the funny looks some of these girls have been giving me because I sound American. I do wonder what it was like for Rosalie Selfridge last year. How silly it is that people would turn their noses up at her, when her father has more money than God."

Sybil laughed. "So does yours."

Imogen laughed too, but her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. "Perhaps, but even though I don't sound it, I _am_ English."

"And thank God for that," Sybil said in a tone that let Imogen know she was only teasing.

"I'm sorry we haven't seen more of each other this week," Imogen said.

"I should apologize for that," Sybil replied. "I think I've been in denial that any of this was happening because Tom isn't here."

"Well, just because he's absent doesn't mean we can't have a terrific time this month. You must collect at least a dozen stories to regale him with upon your return to Downton."

"I wish I could tell him something exciting happened here today. If I had bothered to leave the house and come see you this week, you and I might have planned a protest of some sort."

Imogen's eyes widened in excitement and she leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, "I'm a step ahead of your, my dear friend."

Sybil's eyes widened in shock. "What are you talking about?"

At just that moment, though, their mothers found them again, and Cora said, looking at Sybil, "All right, darling, it's time."

Sybil turned to see that the mass of debutantes and their presenters was moving into the Green Drawing Room, and lining up to enter the Throne Room one by one. Before she knew it, they were at the head of the room, Cora was handing off her card and Sybil heard their names being called out.

"The Countess of Grantham presenting the Lady Sybil Crawley."

Sybil stepped through, her mother a step behind. Sybil saw Robert immediately to her left, where a handful of dignitaries were milling about, cordoned off from the path she was to take up to where the king and queen sat, surrounded by their children, who might well have been wax statues, so bored and lifeless they looked. Sybil nodded once at her father, whose chest she could see swell with pride as she stepped forward. She looked back once at her mother who nodded encouragingly. Once she reached the front of the room, she stepped forward to curtsey before the king, who nodded once she'd done so, then the queen. As she straightened herself up the second time, she thought her knees might buckle beneath her, but she shifted her feet quickly and stood without betraying that she'd been on the verge of falling.

Then, as carefully as she could, she took several steps backwards, careful not to step on her train, until her mother took her elbow, which was her signal that she could turn and leave the room.

And that was it.

She was about to step out of the room when she heard, "The Lady Priscilla Wilkes presenting Miss Imogen Wilkes."

Sybil crossed the threshold into the Picture Gallery, but whereas Cora continued on, Sybil quickly turned to see her friend follow the path Sybil herself had just walked, wracking her brain to think what Imogen might have up her sleeve.

Imogen had just made it to the head of the room when Sybil saw it.

A small broach, no more than four inches in diameter, pinned to Imogen's lower back. It was comprised of three small strands of silk, each tied in a knot; from them hung a pendant, inside of which was a portrait. The colors of the silk were easy to see against the whiteness of her dress. One purple, one ivory, and one green. The portrait was too small for Sybil to recognize from her vantage point. As Imogen would later tell her, it was a picture of Emmaline Pankhurst.

 _She could not have not been wearing it earlier,_ Sybil thought, _for it would have been noticed, surely, and she'd have been asked to remove it—or to depart altogether._

There were no audible gasps, but the crowd of men watching the proceedings took notice, and the din in the room grew louder and louder, eventually reaching such a degree that one of the stewards at the back had to ask for quiet. The royal family, who could not and would not see Imogen's back, was none the wiser as to what had made the guests so restless. They were, perhaps, too bored to ask.

As Imogen backed away from them, Sybil watched Lady Priscilla—whose face was the picture of placid composure—step forward and as subtly as she could rip the trinket off. When Imogen finally turned toward the doorway, Sybil could see that her friend's face was as composed as her mother's, but as soon as Imogen's eyes met Sybil's, Imogen smiled a smile that suggested she was only just managing to contain a grin. Sybil understood immediately that it had never been Imogen's intention for their majesties to see, only the lords standing behind her, a legion of self-important men who'd have one look at Miss Imogen Wilkes, stand in her presence while she spoke quickly and excitedly as was her habit, hear about her interests in fashion and art and travel and dismiss her as the silliest of girls without a second thought. But in just one act, she had not only proved them all wrong, she had shown them up, too.

From putting the pin on before her mother could do anything about it, to making the walk down the length of the room to performing her curtseys and stepping out again, the whole thing lasted barely longer than a minute, and few of the men in the room who actually saw the emblem knew who the wearer was or had bothered to remember her name after Imogen and Lady Priscilla had been announced. The royal attendants whose job was to stare determinedly ahead without flinching might have noticed, but were either too shocked to act or—more likely—determined that the young lady had made it too far in to be stopped without creating a scene that might have disturbed or embarrassed their majesties. Once out of the Throne Room and inside the Picture Gallery, neither Priscilla nor Imogen behaved as if Imogen's presentation had gone anything but exactly as it should have. Imogen's intention had been neither to create a spectacle, nor draw attention to herself, only to draw attention to her cause. She succeeded splendidly. The fact that Pankhurst's specter and influence had somehow infiltrated Buckingham Palace was all just about everyone could to talk about for the rest of the evening—even if no one could say with certainty exactly what had happened (The broach became a sash in some versions of the story, a hat pin in others) or by whose hand it had been done (a debutante, the lady presenting, or, in one particularly vivid and thoroughly false retelling, Pankhurst herself).

Cora had not stayed at the door to watch Imogen as Sybil had. Robert had been on his way out as well when the sudden high-pitched whispering had started, but he turned back to the crowd of men, not to the front of the room, so he didn't notice the cause and once he found out, happily pretended he'd not been there at all, being the kind of person who, when scandal happens, prefers not to be associated with it anyway. Violet, who joined them in the state dining room, was appalled and wondered aloud whether younger generations had any sense of occasion. Sybil could not have been prouder of her friend and happily defended her to her grandmother—without ever mentioning her name, of course.

"Granny, I believe a very well developed sense of occasion is precisely what led to do the act," Sybil said, "on this of all possible occasions. Can you think of a better time or place to suggest that we discuss an issue so germane the group being feted here tonight?"

"Yes, Sybil, I can," Violet said sternly, in the way only she could. "But I'd rather not give the topic any more of our time, lest we give Lady Susan Darlington further reason to play the peacock and act as if this is _her_ soiree simply because we're talking about women's politics."

But Sybil did not feel inclined to hold her tongue or censor her opinions in any way whenever anyone sought to engage her in conversation that night. Imogen's bravery had perked her up considerably. She resolved that even without Tom she would make this a good summer, not by being the social butterfly her parents wanted, but by spending time with her family and friends and taking up the cause that had stirred her interest in politics in the first place.

In the end, only one man knew exactly what happened and who the perpetrator had been, though he didn't share this knowledge with anyone present and, indeed, as the night went on pretended to be entirely ignorant of it.

That man was Rotchford Bellasis, Earl of Goring.

He had been inside the room, and recognized Imogen's name immediately as a young lady his nephew and heir had mentioned to him on more than one occasion. If there was romantic interest on his nephew's side, it didn't seem particularly strong, but Tom obviously considered her a close friend. Lord Goring's curiosity was peaked when the young lady, with fair hair and skin, a lovely pair of blue eyes and posture that suggested a good upbringing, stepped into the room. Imogen might have counted on a great ally in her pursuit of Tom's affections if Lord Goring had turned away a split second before she walked past him, but he didn't.

Instead, the following morning he was at the home of his brother practically at first light with a stern warning and a strong suggestion that the invitation to her ball be declined. Roger and Anne Bellasis were good people. Had they been witness to Imogen's act, they would have been alarmed, sure, but would not have taken such a grave step. Good as they were, however, they also allowed Rotchford to have greater influence in their son's life than most parents would to an uncle given that Tom was his heir. They put up no fight and Anne wrote the note to Lady Priscilla straight away, not mentioning the reason they would not attend. Tom was also in no mood for an argument and so said nothing, except to volunteer to deliver the note himself that very afternoon.

When he arrived at the Wilkes' London house, he asked to see only Imogen. Lady Priscilla wasn't particularly pleased that he'd come calling—never having warmed to Mr. Tom Bellasis—or the boldness of the request, but Imogen insisted and eventually had her way. Once they were alone, Tom explained the situation, his uncle's role in it as well as his report of what he had witnessed. Imogen said that she did not regret what she did, but she was very sorry, indeed, that it led to this, "for I was very much looking forward to dancing with you, if you don't mind me saying it."

"I don't mind," was Tom Bellasis' reply. After a beat, during which he contemplated how lovely she was, even when her face wore the clear mark of disenchantment that it did now, he added, "but there's no need for you to be sad on my account, because whatever my parents' plans may be, I will still be present at your ball."

Imogen's heart leaped into her throat. "You will?" She squeaked out in disbelief.

He nodded, smiling.

"So you're going to come to spite your uncle?"

"No . . . well, I suppose in some measure I am. But the truth is I don't think I understood until just now what kind of a person you were."

"Heavens, what could that mean?"

"It means that I'm coming to your ball and I'd like to be the first man you dance with."

* * *

"He said WHAT!?"

Imogen stopped her nervous pacing around Sybil's room to answer. "He said that he wanted to open the ball with me," she said uneasily.

Sybil was sitting on her bed watching her smitten friend recount the visit of the young man who'd been the object of her interest for almost a year now. "Oh, Imogen, that's so romantic!"

"Do you really think so, darling? I hate to get my hopes up."

Sybil laughed at how unwilling Imogen was to admit that she'd finally won Tom Bellasis over. "How can you not think so?"

"Because to this point he's been so _un_ romantic with me. We've become good friends, that's true enough, and I do like that—I don't want to sound spoiled or petulant—but he's never made any suggestion that he might be falling in love with me. If his intention was to make a romantic overture, wouldn't he have swept me off my feet and kissed me or something?"

"Maybe this is his way of being romantic—to save the kiss for just the right moment," Sybil offered.

"I dare say _any_ moment would be right by me," Imogen said with a sigh.

"What you did at the palace obviously made an impression on him. Whether he's head over heels or merely realizing that he'd like to know you better, his feelings have obviously progressed."

"I hate him for making me think this hard."

Sybil laughed again. "What was your reply, anyway? You never said."

"I didn't reply."

"Why not?"

"He didn't give me a chance. He was out the door almost as soon as he'd spoken before I could formulate an answer. Mama found it very presumptuous. She is determined not to like him, it seems."

"I thought you'd told me once you could never marry a man who got on too well with your mother," Sybil said, teasingly.

"What a terribly capricious thing to say. It certainly sounds like me."

"I didn't set out to annoy my parents and yet . . . it would seem there really is no pleasing them—yours, mine or Tom Bellasis' for that matter—so we may as well make ourselves happy."

Imogen smiled. "Very well said."

"So what happened to your trinket anyway?" Sybil asked, changing the subject.

"It must be under a cushion somewhere in Buckingham Palace or in a chamber pot perhaps. Mama would not return it to me after she took it off me, and I can only imagine she rid herself of it at the first opportunity."

"What made you decide to do it?"

"I don't know, honestly," Imogen said. "I suppose part of me wanted to test my mettle, to see just how dedicated I am to a cause I often talk about but rarely feel like I do much to advance. Working women do so much more—even with more to lose. What I did was really nothing, when you think about it."

"Nonsense!" Sybil exclaimed.

"My punishment would simply have been to lose my standing in court, something that would have disappointed my mother slightly but bothered my papa not at all. When we're back in New York what the royal family thinks of us won't really matter."

"Well, whether you had much to lose or not, you did do something. How often do you have that crowd talking the advancement of women beyond good marriages?"

"I have another idea," Imogen said. "One more my style because honestly I'm not one for symbolic acts of rebellion. I was thinking . . . Tom—you know, _my_ Tom, well, not _mine_ but what I mean to say is not yours. Isn't it funny that they have the same name? I thought it rather charming at first that we both loved men with that name, but it gets tedious having to continually identify them in conversation. Anyway, Tom _Bellasis_ told me that the Royal Free has a fund for women who are accepted to the same medical college you wish to attend but who have trouble affording things like books and such, and I was so moved by the debate we attended back in December and the suggestion that rich suffragettes don't care about the middle- and working class supporters of the cause that I thought we could raise money for the fund ourselves. We could rent out a banquet hall easily enough and have party—oh, and possibly host a fashion show! The head of fashion at Selfridge's may as well be _my_ employee so often I call on him. I'm sure he would help. Between your mother's acquaintances and mine I know we'd fill the place quite easily and raise plenty of money. What do you think?"

Sybil grinned. "I think it's terrific! Perhaps along with evening wear, we can show suits and clothing for working women and invite graduates of the medical school to participate, along with current students, so it can be more like friends supporting one another, rather than just charity."

"Marvelous notion! Oh, Sybil, let's do it!"

For the rest of the afternoon, thoughts of young men and romance were forgotten for greater purposes, as the two friends considered excitedly all the possibilities of hosting their own event during the season—one that would have a useful purpose and would welcome anyone who wanted to attend, not just the chosen few. By the time Imogen left, just before tea, they had planned everything out almost down to what each of them would wear. Sybil was thrilled once again by the prospect of what this summer in London would bring.

Such was the spring in her step that Mary remarked on it later in the library, when the two sisters were the last to take their tea.

"I'm glad your mood has brightened from earlier this week," Mary said, sitting down on the sofa, stirring her tea.

"I'm sorry if my disposition dampened your first week here," Sybil replied. "I was upset with how things had turned out after all the trouble I started the night of the count, but I didn't mean to bring everyone down with me."

Mary smiled. "At this juncture, there isn't much that excites me about London life anymore, so if my disposition isn't the cheeriest, it certainly isn't your fault."

"Perhaps, but of everyone else in the house, you've the most reason to be upset with me."

Mary's brow furrowed. "Why would you say that?"

"Because of me and my punishment, Matthew stayed behind as well."

Mary smirked. "And why should Matthew's absence affect me over everyone else?"

Sybil smiled, giving Mary a knowing look.

"Actually, Sybil, I'd like for you to vocalize whatever silly notion is in your head so that I can dispense with it appropriately."

"Is it really so hard to admit that you like him?"

Mary thought for a moment, considering her answer. She didn't want to lie to Sybil, but neither did she want to talk about her feelings for Matthew, complicated as they were. "My feelings are my own, darling," she said finally. "I think I'd like to keep it that way, at least for now."

Sybil smiled. "Very well, but you two seem to be getting along well. So if nothing else, I'm sorry that I deprived you of his conversation."

"You didn't deprive me of anything. He chose not to come."

"I suppose that's true, but I do suspect that Tom staying behind had something to with it, don't you?"

"I'm sure that was his reason, and I don't begrudge his loyalty to his brother—I rather admire it." Mary paused to think a moment, then said, "I won't deny that I wish he were with us now, but I don't wish for him to be different than he is and that means accepting that if given the choice, he'd rather not be here."

"That makes you like Imogen."

Mary looked at Sybil as if she'd grown a second head. "What could she and I have in common?"

Sybil laughed. "She'd like the man she loves to throw caution to the wind and sweep her off her feet, and Tom Bellasis is not really the type for romantic overtures. He's far too sensible."

"Does he like her?" Mary asked, "Because I have to say mama had her sights on him for you."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me—he's a lovely person, certainly, but even if things were different I don't think we'd be well matched. Anyway, he does have feelings for Imogen, even if he's not particularly effusive about them or as much as she might wish he were."

"That may be, but you're wrong to think I prefer recklessness over good sense."

"I don't mean as a rule, just every once in a while, for romance's sake."

"Is that what you're wishing for now? That Tom _Branson_ jump on a train here and come sweep you away, papa's wishes and propriety be damned?"

Sybil laughed. "I do wish that, now that you mention it!"

"Well, there's a week yet until your ball, perhaps he will," Mary said with a quirk of her eyebrows.

Sybil tilted her head down as if trying to read something into Mary's words. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Darling, I know everything."

* * *

**One week later, on a train en route to London**

"You didn't have to stay behind, you know," Tom said, watching Matthew read the newspaper on the seat across from him in their train car. "I'm happy for us to make the journey together now, but when Robert told me I couldn't join them for Sybil's season, that didn't mean you too."

"What would I have done in London for an entire month? It's not as if I was going to ask Robert and Cora to take me to every event they were invited to. I'd just be sitting in the Grantham House library twiddling my thumbs most of the time. Anyway, it didn't seem appropriate for me to be there without you."

Tom smiled, touched by Matthew's constancy on his behalf. "What did he say when you told him you'd not be going?"

"Nothing, particularly," Matthew replied. "I said things were busy at the partnership and he didn't press me beyond that . . . does that surprise you?"

Tom shrugged and looked out the window for a moment, before turning back to Matthew. "I suppose I don't want you to risk falling out of his favor because of me."

"There's no such risk."

Tom looked skeptically at Matthew.

"It's true! I can't speak for what will happen between him and Sybil, but where I'm concerned he would never ask me to pick a side. He knows I'd not choose his."

"He may demand that you do after this weekend."

Matthew cracked a smile. "Well, then I'll tell him it was all Mary's idea."


	49. The Proposals

"Sir? Mr. Branson is here. Are you ready for him?"

Sir John Wilkes took a minute to complete the sentence he was writing, blow the ink on the paper dry, and read what he'd just written to himself one more time. Only then did he look up to answer his secretary.

"I am," he said, moving the paper off to one side and standing. "Show him in, and bring us some tea, will you please, Miss Carter?"

"Of course, sir," she said with a nod, before heading out of the office.

Sir John moved around his large oak desk and walked over to the other end of his roomy office to the coat rack on which his jacket was hung and pulled it on. He was buttoning the top button as Miss Carter came back in, followed by Tom. Sir John walked over to him with an open hand.

"Mr. Branson," he said with a smile, "it's nice to see you again."

"Likewise, Sir John. Thank you for taking my appointment. I trust Lady Priscilla and Miss Wilkes are well."

"They are, thank you." John motioned for Tom to sit on one of two large armchairs next to a window overlooking Oxford Street, where the shipping titan had made his temporary offices during the last year.

"Have you been enjoying the season?" John asked, leaning back in his chair once he'd sat down.

Tom smiled sheepishly. "I'm afraid not. I only arrived in London today."

Sir John raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I assumed you've be in town with the Crawleys."

Before Tom could respond, to his relief, Miss Carter came back in with a tea tray. She set it on a small coffee table in between the armchairs and promptly served both men.

"Will that be all, sir?" she asked once she'd finished.

"Yes, Miss Carter, thank you," Sir John said.

When she was gone, Sir John picked up his teacup and sat back again, taking a sip. "I must say I was intrigued by your letter. I spoke with my man in Cork this very morning, and though I can't promise that we'll have much legal work for you, I can assure you that in our operation there, there is always much work to be done, at least some of it interesting. And in any case, I'm always looking for new talent. Are you really thinking about leaving Downton?"

Tom took a sip of his tea, set the cup back on its saucer, then set both back on the table. He took a deep breath and spoke. "Actually, Sir John, I apologize for being so circumspect in my letter and, as a result, having given a mistaken impression. I do have an interest in Cork and may very well visit, but I didn't come to ask you for a job."

"Oh . . . my mistake. How can I help you, then?"

Tom paused for a moment and looked Sir John in the eyes for a brief moment. Sensing no judgment or impatience in the man's expression, Tom continued.

"The truth is," he said, quietly, "I'm . . . I'm looking for someone. I have reason to believe he may have been in Cork in the last year. I've never been there, but I remembered you telling me at Downton last year that you had offices there." Tom paused again. "I thought it would be worth asking if you had a connection there who would be willing to help me."

"Who is it you are looking for?"

"His name is Ciaran Harrington. He's . . . a distant relation, you might say. It's a very long story, and I don't want to bore you with the details or embroil you in my family's complicated history. I don't know whether he is in Cork now or ever was, but I think that he might've been in the last couple of years. I'm sorry to impose on you like this, but I am rather desperate to find him and knowledge of an expressed interest in visiting Cork is the only clue I have to go on, I'm afraid."

Sir John thought for a moment. "Well, I can't say that I know any private detectives or the like, but I do trust that the men I put in charge of my local operations—wherever they happen to be—can carry out whatever task I set before them, no matter how sensitive, so I am confident that the man I just mentioned will be able to help you. If nothing else we can look at our employee rolls to see if we've ever hired anyone by that name. I insist on keeping reliable records and happen to know that particularly in that port many of our workers are seasonal."

"Any help would be most welcome," Tom said.

"Is there anything you can tell me about the man that may aid in the search?"

"He's twenty-eight or twenty-nine, I believe . . . that's about all I know. I wish I could say more. I know the chances of finding him are remote, but I have to try."

Sir John's brow furrowed in curiosity. "And he's family, you said?"

Tom laughed a bit uneasily. "If I may level with you, sir . . . he's my brother—well, half-brother. Neither my mother nor I knew of him until very recently."

"And your father?"

"He passed when I was still a baby. My mother was his second wife . . . his first died at childbirth. At Ciaran's birth, as it happens."

"And your father didn't mention to your mother he had another son?"

"He died believing neither child and mother survived. Like I said, it's—"

"A long story," Sir John finished for him. He smiled not unkindly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."

Tom shrugged. "I know the circumstances are odd, and they make it probable that my search will come to naught. Even so, I feel it necessary to try."

"Of course."

Sir John stood and walked over to his desk. He took out a clean sheet of paper and made some quick notes before ringing for his secretary, who came in in short order.

"Send this note to Mr. Keeley in Cork via telegram when you have a moment," he said, holding out the piece of paper for her to take.

When she was gone again, he said, "Well, Mr. Branson, I will be in touch if there is anything to report, but otherwise, I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you, sir," Tom said stepping forward to shake Sir John's hand once again. "I can't tell you enough how grateful I am."

"And you're sure I can't convince you to come work for me?" Sir John asked with a smile.

Tom scratched the back of his head. "I'm flattered that the handful of conversations you've had with me among friends at Downton convinced you that hiring me would be worth your time."

"To be fair, I should admit I did some checking after I received your letter, thinking that it was a job you were after. You left behind many friends and satisfied clients in Manchester. Enough to convince me that you'd be an asset on my staff."

"Even if I know nothing about your business?"

"Most employers desire experience and knowledge of the trade, but over the years, I've found that the only trait that really matters in a potential employee is willingness to work. If that exists, everything else falls into place eventually. But then, I don't do things the way most businessmen do."

"A strategy that has served you well, it seems."

"Well enough."

Tom smiled at Sir John's apparent humility. "Well, I won't take any more of your time."

"No need to worry," Sir John said. "I'm only seeing to some correspondence today. With Miss Wilkes' coming out ball this evening, my wife has sent strict orders that I take a light load and be home at an early time." He laughed good-naturedly and added, "Between her iron-strong will and that of my daughter's, it's a wonder the planning for the event hasn't caused the house to cave in on itself. I suppose Lord Grantham is likely facing a similar predicament at home with Lady Sybil and Lady Grantham, is he?"

Hoping to extricate himself from the conversation before it went further down this path, Tom said, as casually as he could, "I'm afraid that when it comes to how young ladies or their mothers prepare for such things, I know nothing."

"Consider yourself lucky then," Sir John said with a laugh. "And let's talk more tonight. If nothing else, we can enjoy some excellent Irish whiskey I happen to have. That's the benefit of being in the shipping business—the contraband. Too few of the Englishmen we've had visit have wanted to try it."

Tom chuckled, then said. "I doubt anyone in London tonight would appreciate that more than me, but I . . . I'm afraid I'm not attending Miss Wilkes' ball."

"Aren't you? Lady Priscilla said she'd invited the entire Crawley clan. I assumed that included you."

"It did—that is, she did. It's only that . . . I had to decline the invitation." Tom hesitated, trying to find an excuse that would put an end to the conversation. He finally settled on, "There were unforeseeable circumstances."

But Sir John was undeterred. "I can certainly understand if you had a conflict or didn't plan to be in town," he said, "but you're here now. You're still welcome, if you're free and so inclined."

Tom looked down, not sure what to say. The truth was that he had been touched to receive the invitation and thought long and hard about accepting it to have the chance to dance with Sybil that they'd miss at her ball because of Robert's decision to ban him. But upon bringing the question to Matthew, the latter advised him not to stir the waters by showing up, seeing as doing so would only make Robert angry. Imogen was Tom's friend. The invitation to her soiree had been sincerely proffered in light of that friendship, and Tom would have been within his right to accept it in that same spirit. But so far as Matthew was concerned, Robert would only see a stubborn young man deliberately trying to subvert his will.

Tom couldn't argue with that, and neither could Sybil. Knowing what was at stake, they both grudgingly agreed that Tom declining the invite was the best course. Still, it annoyed Tom to have to appease Robert to such a degree, annoyance that flared up once again in Sir John's office.

"I meant no disrespect by declining the invitation," Tom said finally, "and certainly, I mean none now in refusing once again. I hope you do not think it inappropriate of me to say, but Lord Grantham and myself have had a bit of a falling out. I know he wouldn't make a scene if he saw me, but it would likely ruin his evening and I'd hate to think of any of Miss Wilkes' guests as unhappy on such a night."

"You don't say! Which daughter is it?"

Tom looked immediately confused. "Pardon me?"

"You're a young man without a wife and without a fortune," Sir John said, holding back a laugh. "He has three daughters. What other thing could you possibly be quarreling about?"

Tom blushed slightly and opened his mouth to speak, but Sir John cut him off.

"Never mind me," he said laughing again. "You certainly don't owe me any explanation. And never mind Lord Grantham. He's as traditional as they come, but he's a good man. Fathers . . . we commit many sins on our daughters' behalf and tell ourselves it's for their own good, no matter how loudly they protest to the contrary. And anyway, if a common dock worker like myself can marry the daughter of the Duke of Bedford, there's certainly hope for a well-raised young man like you."

"I would never call _you_ a common dock worker, but I appreciate that," Tom said, sincerely. "Even so, I think it best that I stay away tonight."

Sir John smiled kindly. "Very well."

* * *

In the end, Tom Bellasis came clean to his parents about attending Miss Imogen Wilkes' ball. Neither of them was particularly pleased that he waited until he was headed to the event to reveal his intentions. But knowing that it was impossible to stop him doing something once his mind was made up, they didn't bother to say anything other than to remind him that his Uncle Rotchford would likely be vociferous in his displeasure if he were to find out.

At hearing this warning, Bellasis merely rolled his eyes and went on his way. It wasn't that he disliked his uncle. He was, in fact, rather fond of the crotchety old man . . . when the old man wasn't trying to run his life.

Rotchford Bellasis, seventh Earl of Goring, was the rare peer who'd not concerned himself with producing an heir. He had little patience for the company of strangers, generally speaking, and of fortune-seeking women, in particular. (Such was the size of the Goring estate and Rotchford's self-regard that to him, all women were fortune-seeking women.) So when his younger brother, Roger, married his childhood sweetheart, Lady Anne Hawkins, shortly after completing his studies at Cambridge and had a son months after their first anniversary, Rotchford considered the matter settled. Roger and Anne's son would be his heir. The young couple were delighted by Rotchford's generosity, and as a child, young Tom delighted in his uncle's attention. Around the time of his adolescence, however, he began to realize that that attention came with strings, and the older Bellasis got, the tighter his uncle pulled them. In recent years, they'd arrived at something of a truce and were starting to get on as well as they had in Bellasis' youth . . . so long as they could avoid two topics: Bellasis' desire to work and what "lucky" young lady would become his wife. Bellasis was a conscientious young man and recognized how fortunate he was and how many would willingly trade their problems for his, but he also longed to be his own man, and his uncle took every opportunity to remind him that so long as Bellasis was his heir, he couldn't be.

None of that mattered as he made his way to Imogen's ball, though. A desire to contradict his uncle had provided the spark that pushed him to seek her out to assure her of his attendance over his uncle's orders, but only to a point. The story that Rotchford had told of Imogen's small, silent protest at no lesser a venue than Buckingham Palace had also turned Bellasis' curiosity. And there was the matter of how endearing he found the expression of wide-eyed surprise with which she'd accepted him when he asked to be the man with whom she danced first.

By the time he'd arrived at the appointed place and set eyes on her, his uncle was long gone from his mind. In truth, he'd been barely able to think about anything else but Imogen all day, and yet, so keenly aware of his previous indifference was he, that the only adjective he could ascribe to his feelings in that moment was "confused." Still, he made good on his promise, sought permission from her parents, as was appropriate, and considered himself the luckiest of fools when he walked her to the middle of the ballroom to dance.

Sybil had never seen him dance before, but she swore that there was something of an added spring in his step as the two waltzed about the room. Sybil grinned at how composed Imogen seemed, considering that she had been a bundle of nerves before her Mr. Bellasis had arrived. Watching them, Sybil sincerely hoped that this was the first of a long series of memories of them together. Whether or not they were properly in love just then, there was no denying that they made a handsome couple.

The evening was not without its ups and downs, though.

The low-point came when Imogen's uncle, the Duke of Bedford, quite spontaneously decided to toast his niece and spoke drunkenly and at some length about what a sweet girl Imogen was despite the fact that she'd been raised by a "shrewish mother." That no love was lost between the Duke and his sister, Lady Priscilla, was a well-known fact only among the family's closest friends until that night. After, the greater part of London society took a bit of pity on "poor Priscilla," who didn't bother to stop her brother's pontificating because she easily recognized that more than anything, he was embarrassing only himself.

A few minutes into his speech, Sybil happened to catch Larry Grey's eyes looking at her. She was about to look away when she noticed Larry's eyes closing, as if he were falling asleep on his feet. Her brow furrowed and she wondered if maybe he was ill when, just at the moment his eyes were completely shut, his head jerked up again.

A laugh burst out of Sybil so suddenly, she clapped her hand over her mouth. The Duke stopped for a moment and looked around, as if looking for anyone who might have been laughing at his expense. Finding no one by his cursory glance around the room, he went on. After avoiding the stern expression of her mother, standing next to her, Sybil looked back at Larry alarmed and saw that he was laughing to himself, not mockingly though. It was as if his display was merely a silly ploy to make her laugh, and he was pleased that he'd succeeded.

It was a glimmer of the young boy who had so enjoyed entertaining her when she was a child.

Sybil shook her head and rolled her eyes at him, but smiled too.

Several minutes later—as the Duke continued on, "I remember, too, when Miss Wilkes was ten . . . or was it five . . . when do girls start talking? Oh, heaven knows. I think it was ten. She said to me, 'Uncle . . ."—Sybil felt a tap on her shoulder.

It was Tom Bellasis, motioning her to follow him. As discretely as she could, she backed away from where she'd been standing and, catching sight of him in the hallway, made her way there.

"Apologies," he said a bit sheepishly. "I don't mean to pull you away . . ."

Sybil smiled. "It's all right. I'm happy not to have to hear more of that man's ramblings."

Bellasis chuckled. "I'm sorry for Imogen, though I imagine her parents will put him out of his misery eventually."

"Or his next whiskey will."

Bellasis looked down, and Sybil noticed that he was wringing his hands, as if nervous.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

He sighed. "May I ask you something very honestly?"

"She does like you. Very much. You know she's not one to hold back her feelings, so I wonder that you're asking for confirmation."

Bellasis smiled. "I'm not. Though, it's related . . . anyway, at the risk of sounding like a right ass, may I ask . . . when you invited her to our outing to the Royal Free back in December, was the reason that you invited her that you wanted to put me off?"

"What?!"

"Was the reason—"

"I heard what you said!" Sybil exclaimed. "I just can't quite believe my ears!"

Bellasis sighed. "I know it's an odd thing to ask."

"That's one word for it," Sybil cut in.

"I'm sorry," he said, clearly frustrated with himself. "I'm having trouble articulating what I want to say, which is not normal for me. I want to know whether you genuinely think we'd be a good match or whether you were just trying to ensure I didn't become fond of _you_."

Sybil saw sincere concern in his eyes. "No," she answered in a gentler tone. "I wasn't trying to _deflect_ you onto my friend. I would never abuse her like that. She expressed an interest in you after we met at my family's garden party last year. You're a nice person—well, other than asking such a rude question just now—and you seemed to have a false impression of her, so I sought to correct that. But I would never have pushed you in her direction if I didn't think you worthy of her time."

"And you really think I am?"

Sybil smiled a bit sadly as the insecurity behind the question. "Why is it that the most outwardly confident of boys actually lack for confidence quite completely when you really get to know them?"

Bellasis laughed. "My mind and heart are a muddled mess, but . . . I liked you when we met. I didn't fancy myself in love with you when our families dined back in December, but my contrarian nature is such that when you pushed me in her direction, I felt a bit inclined to resist. Then when we picked her up that day . . . she was so lovely and sweet, and even tried to apologize for the fact that I'd been rude to her in the past. So we've become friends . . . _good_ friends, I'd say. And then Uncle Rotch had to go and forbid me to see her again, and I immediately ran the opposite direction, which is to say in _her_ direction. And that's where I am."

Sybil furrowed her brow. "I don't understand."

"I like Imogen, and perhaps there's a seed of love in that . . . perhaps if she didn't like me so much, then—"

Sybil crossed her arms in a huff. "Then you'd find the challenge of pursuing her against her will sufficiently amusing!?"

Bellasis couldn't stop himself chuckling at her response. "I'm sorry. I'm being an ass again. And you're right, that wouldn't be honest either. That's just the thing. I don't want to be ruled by juvenile impulses I haven't managed to outgrow. I want to be ruled by my heart. "

"And what is it saying about her?"

Bellasis walked over to the door that led back into the ballroom. The duke was no longer drunkenly rambling at the center of it. The crowd had dispersed a bit, and couples were dancing once again. Among them were Imogen and her father. She was smiling as brightly as she had all evening.

"She's beautiful," Bellasis began quietly. "There's no denying that. And sweet. And funny—I don't mean funny like her habit of talking at a thousand words a minute is a thing to laugh at—though, it does make me laugh . . . in a good way—but she also makes jokes and odd references to things that make me laugh in earnest, and not at her expense. She is rather clever, at the end of the day, even though I didn't think so at first. It's a bit buried. Like she's been taught to hide the best bits of herself so the chaps she talks to aren't offended by the fact that a woman knows as much as they do. And she's so kind and thoughtful . . . she could charm the fur off a cat." He stopped to laugh, suddenly picturing introducing Miss Imogen Wilkes to his curmudgeonly uncle.

Sybil smiled watching him watch her. When he turned back to Sybil he had a silly grin on his face.

"That's a lot more that a 'seed' of love Mr. Bellasis," she said quietly.

"Is it really that easy, then?"

"I don't have much more experience than you do, so I can't say, but if I were you I'd take advantage of love coming so easy now. You don't know what life will bring that may make it harder to love later on."

"Perhaps that's my fear."

"What is?"

Bellasis looked back at Imogen dancing. "I've been lucky my whole life. Too lucky. I don't want love to be the arena in which my luck runs out, because I know it will run out eventually."

At just that moment, the dance ended and Imogen stepped away from her father, turned and saw her two friends standing at the doorway. She smiled brightly and hurried over to them.

"Darlings! Can you believe my wretched uncle? Oh, I do hope he hasn't ruined your evening. Have you been having a wonderful time? I have, I must say, even with him going on and on like that. I'm so glad you—"

Bellasis stepped forward and took her hands, effectively cutting her off. "Miss Wilkes, when I said I wanted to dance your first dance with you, were you under the impression that that would be the only dance we'd share because it has been so far, and I find that fact rather disappointing and intend to rectify it immediately."

Imogen smiled and her already flush cheeks seemed to brighten even more. "But I've barely had time to talk with Sybil all night," she said, even as she let him pull her back onto the dance floor.

Bellasis looked back at Sybil and winked. "I have feeling she won't mind waiting a bit longer."

* * *

Sybil was the last of the family to make it to breakfast the next morning, so she endured some gentle teasing about being a bit bleary eyed even though she felt reasonably well rested and even though everyone had attended Imogen's ball, everyone had returned home at the same hour and everyone had made it down to breakfast looking no worse for the wear. Everyone but Violet, who took her breakfast in her room, not because she needed the extra rest, but because she could.

"Can you handle so much excitement two evenings in a row?" Edith asked Sybil with a smile, as Sybil tucked into her breakfast.

"Are you sure you've had enough rest, darling?" Cora asked, now showing genuine concern. "I'd hate for you not to feel fully yourself tonight."

Sybil smiled. "I can assure you, mama, I'll be fine. I have been out past tea time once or twice in my life, you know."

Cora smiled at Sybil's teasing, glad that her daughter had at least woken on the right side of the bed this morning. "I know," Cora said. "I just want tonight to be perfect."

Sybil felt a slight pang that, once again, her mother seemed to have forgotten that Tom wouldn't be present and that, by that very fact, the evening _couldn't_ be perfect. But Sybil didn't bother to point it out. She was done trying to tell her mother how she felt—she had done it in the clearest terms on the day of her presentation. The month would come to an end soon enough. Then, they'd go back to Downton, Tom would be there, and together, they'd finally level with her parents. And however Robert and Cora chose to respond . . . none of it would matter.

Sybil focused on her breakfast without saying more and didn't bother to listen to the chitchat going on around her. When she'd finished, Cora again began to worry aloud about whether Sybil should take more of the morning to rest. Sybil looked up to answer her mother and noticed Mary watching her with an understanding smile. Mary winked at Sybil, then set the coffee cup she'd been holding back down on the table and said, "Mama, don't worry about Sybil. You know she'll be just fine and look perfectly beautiful tonight. And anyway, Edith and I are planning to take her out for a walk in Hyde Park. The fresh air ought to do you good, don't you think, darling? Then we can have lunch out, what do you think?"

Sybil looked at Mary confused. It seemed as if Mary was telling a lie and expecting Sybil to follow along, but Sybil wasn't sure to what end.

After a beat—and after Mary raised her eyebrows at her as if prodding her to speak—Sybil said, "That actually sounds lovely. Thank you!"

"I'm sorry," Edith said tentatively. "I know I said I would, but something's come up. I have to excuse myself."

"You can't!" Mary exclaimed, clearly annoyed. "We discussed it yesterday. What could have possibly come up between then and now?"

Edith held up a note that Carson had handed her when she'd walked into breakfast earlier. "It's just that Sir Anthony wanted to take me for a drive today."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mary said. "You've seen him practically everyday we've been in London—are you so starved for attention you'll ignore your sister's big day?"

"There's no need to make a fuss," Sybil cut in. "And it's not a 'big day.' It's just a party. Do as you please, Edith. There will be plenty of pomp to mark the occasion tonight."

Ignoring Mary, Edith said, "I don't want you to think I'm abandoning you. It's only that he's arranged luncheon with Mrs. Chetwood . . . to try to broker a peace with her. I don't want to put her off when her opinion of me is already what it is."

Mary was about to say something, but Sybil spoke over her. "And you shouldn't. Please go be with Sir Anthony. I insist."

Edith smiled. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

Sybil laughed. "Of course, I don't! Go and tell me all about it when you return."

Edith smiled gratefully, before standing. "I'll go telephone him now."

Mary rolled her eyes as Edith left the room. "If he really is going to propose, I do wish he'd get it over with, so we can all get on with our lives."

"Let her enjoy this without all the bickering, please," Cora said.

"It _would_ be nice to have the thing formalized sooner rather than later," Robert said, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

"Don't you start," Cora said.

"If he's making such an important introduction, then surely that's a sign things are moving along," Isobel put in.

"Quite right," Cora said.

"If you were counting on a third, I'd be happy to come," Matthew said, looking at Mary.

"I suppose you'll have to do," Mary said airily, but Sybil could see a sparkle behind Mary's eyes as she spoke.

"Well, I have some business to tend to, so I'll excuse myself," Robert said standing.

"And I should check in with the cook about the dinner," Cora said. "Have a wonderful morning, dear," she added, looking at Sybil, "but do be sure not to overtire yourself."

Sybil laughed. "I'll be fine, mama."

Cora smiled indulgently as she stood, then followed Robert out of the room.

"I think I might go for a walk myself," Isobel said. "It does seem a perfect day for it. It's been some time since I've been out and about in London. I should take advantage."

"Why don't you come with us?" Sybil asked with a smile. She was looking at Isobel, so she missed the look of panic that Mary exchanged with Matthew.

Before Isobel could answer, Matthew said, "Mother, why don't you wait and see if Cousin Violet would like to join you. If you leave with us, she'll have no company today."

"I have a feeling taking a walk is the last thing Cousin Violet is interested in doing, but I doubt I'll be able to match your energy, anyway," Isobel said. "I'm sure Mary has a full day planned."

Mary smiled. "I do, but you should see if mama may like to join you. She could probably do with a distraction or she's bound to drive herself mad with worry over tonight."

"That is a good suggestion," Isobel said.

Sybil, who'd looked at Mary a bit puzzled as she spoke, stood up. "Well, if it is such a full day, I'll go get my coat straight away."

By the time Sybil made it back down to the entrance hall from her room, Mary and Matthew were both there waiting for her and ready for their outing.

From the house, walking along King Street to St. James Street then to Picadilly en route to Hyde Park, took about twenty minutes, during the whole of which Sybil peppered Matthew with question after question on how Tom had spent the first part of June back in the village. Matthew gave very little away in terms of his answers, saying primarily that Tom had buried himself in work. That led Sybil to ask whether he was very disappointed that he could not join the family in London.

"I have no doubt that he's disappointed not to be spending time with you and the rest of the family," Matthew answered, "but to be honest I don't believe he cared all that much about having to miss being among London society. It's really not his milieu. That is not to say that he doesn't belong, but rather that he doesn't like what it all represents and likely would have felt a bit uncomfortable about being forced to stand it."

"You are right about that," Sybil said with a sigh. "Even so, I miss him."

As they walked on, Sybil again missed Mary and Matthew exchanging a glance. They made the rest of the walk in happy silence, until they arrived at the southeast corner of the park. Once they'd walked into the park a short way, Sybil turned to Mary and said, "All right then, mistress of ceremonies, where to?"

"That's up to you and . . . well, we have a bit of a surprise actually," Mary said.

"Ha!" Sybil exclaimed. "I knew you were up to something! Does mama know?"

"No," Mary said. "Back at breakfast, that was all a ruse."

"Even Edith's outing with Sir Anthony? Because you snipping at her I _did_ believe."

Mary smirked. "Well, I've no doubt she actually is going to see him, and she hadn't mentioned anything about his sister until this morning, but regardless, our intention was for her to find an excuse to stay away so that Matthew would offer to come without drawing any more people."

Sybil laughed. "I suppose I almost wrecked that by inviting Isobel."

"That was not helpful, no," Mary said, with a smile. Then, turning to Matthew, she added, "Neither was suggesting that she wait for granny to go for a walk, as if granny would do such a thing."

"I was only trying to help," Matthew said, smiling.

"Never mind," Sybil said, getting inpatient, "We're here the three of us, as you planned, so what's the surprise? And why did Matthew need to come?"

Mary and Matthew smiled at one another, clearly very pleased with themselves, and without word, Matthew pointed to something behind Sybil.

She turned and saw walking in their direction with purposeful stride, none other than her own Tom Branson.

Sybil let out a shriek of delight and immediately ran in his direction. She might have leaped into his arms had she not remembered as they approached one another that Mary and Matthew were watching them. She could tell that, as happy as he clearly was, he was holding himself back as well, and not greeting her the way he really wanted to. So instead of a kiss, Sybil took his hand and hugged it to her chest.

"I don't have words to say how wonderful it is to see you—though I wish you'd told me you were planning this so I wouldn't have been so miserable the last two weeks."

Tom lifted the hand Sybil wasn't holding and ran his fingers along her cheek. "As much as I have missed you, this wasn't my scheme. It was Mary's."

Sybil turned back to her sister, not letting go of Tom's hand, and walked back to where Mary and Matthew had remained after she'd run off. "I can't believe you would do this, Mary. I'm so grateful."

Mary smiled, happy that the surprised had had the desired effect. "It is _your_ day after all," she said. "I thought it should reflect your wishes and interests in some measure."

Sybil grinned, looking back to Tom.

"So . . . be back here by three o'clock, and don't you dare be late," Mary said sternly.

Sybil nodded eagerly. "Oh, I won't! I promise."

"And nothing political!"

At this Sybil had to roll her eyes. "Mary, for the last time, I didn't get injured at the count. It was _after_ when—"

"We will be good," Tom said, speaking over Sybil, seeing Mary starting to purse her lips out of concern. "And avoid risk of further injury at all costs."

"We _will_ be good," Sybil reiterated, adding, "but I shall be guided by my own judgment and my own politics."

Mary sighed. "Just be careful, please."

"We know Robert is being difficult," Matthew said, "and we're all willingly skirting his decree, but to give him more to be angry about will only make things worse."

"Message heard, loud and clear," Sybil said finally. "Thank you, both."

"All right, then," Mary said, "off you go."

"What are you two going to get up to in the mean time?" Tom asked pointedly.

"Never you mind," Matthew said with a chuckle.

Tom smiled, and tilting his head in the direction from which he'd come, he said to Sybil, "Shall we?"

Grinning, she replied, "We shall!"

Matthew and Mary stood side-by-side as Tom and Sybil walked away from them hand in hand.

"Poor papa," Mary said. "He will rue the day Sybil discovered politics until the day he dies."

"I admire Sybil's passion, though," Matthew said.

"Of course. But then, I like a good argument. Papa does not."

Matthew smiled. "If you really like an argument . . ."

"Yes?"

"We should see more of each other."

"Come now, we don't quarrel nearly as much as we used to."

Matthew felt a bit light-headed holding her gaze. "No, I suppose not," he said quietly.

Mary looked forward again and in the distance, she could see that Sybil and Tom had stopped walking to share a kiss—no doubt, what they'd been wanting to do since they'd laid eyes on each other just now.

The sight of them, clearly over-the-moon in love, made Mary snicker.

"What?" Matthew asked, turning to her and leading her to walk in the opposite direction.

Mary sighed as the two fell into step and continued walking around the gardens.

"Those two," Mary replied with a sigh. "I don't begrudge them their happiness at having found one another, but they behave as if they invented the concept of love."

"I think that's true of anyone newly in love."

Mary turned to look at him. "Do you speak from experience?"

"More so from the belief that every iteration of love is different. Every time two people fall in love they do invent it—or re-invent it—so far as they are concerned."

"Re-invent love?"

Matthew shrugged. "If you're lucky to experience it more than once, which I also think is possible."

Mary watched him out of the side of her eyes and again wondered if he spoke from experience. Matthew having proposed marriage to Lavinia Swire, Mary had no doubt that he had loved her. The question—the same one that had been floating in her mind for months now—was whether he was in love again now and whether she'd ever know.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a romantic when we first met," she said after a moment's reflection.

"I don't know that I would call myself a romantic," Matthew replied.

"No?"

"I'm no more of a romantic than you are, which is to say I am observant, pragmatic but willingly moved by the sentiment when the occasion demands it, like this afternoon and our agreeing to help two people we love who are in the thick of it."

"Is that what you think of _me_?" Mary asked, genuinely curious as to what Matthew thought her opinions of love were.

"Why? Would _you_ call yourself a romantic?"

"I suppose not," Mary answered. "Romance seems like a trick most of the time, a way to lure women into something that may very well make them unhappy."

"Not all marriages are unhappy."

"No, but not all of them are happy ones, and women are forced to play the odds by having no means but marriage but to provide for themselves the life they see fit to have."

"You could choose to have a career, provide for yourself in that way," Matthew said.

Mary responded with a cutting glare from the side of her eyes, which Matthew could only laugh at. "What could I possibly have a career in?"

"I could think of a few things."

"Please don't tease me—I'm being very serious," Mary said, but even she couldn't keep from cracking a smile, given the way he was looking at her.

"I must tease you, Mary, otherwise you'll remember that I'm the person whose existence is keeping you from being able to choose for yourself whether to marry or to live at Downton on your own as an heiress. And I won't go back to you hating me. I much prefer being in your good graces."

Mary smiled. "Well, it's the law's fault, not yours, though I appreciate your acknowledgement of the role you play. And I don't hate you. I never did really—"

At this it was Matthew's turn to look at Mary knowingly.

"I didn't! I hated the situation and took it out on you. That's very different, and if you can't see that then maybe we can't be friends."

Matthew laughed. "I do. I'm sorry."

"I'm glad we are though, friends."

The two slowed their step for a moment as they looked at one another. Mary thought she saw something in Matthew—a desire to say something more than he was saying, but he looked away again and the moment was gone.

So she continued their conversation,. "Anyway, friendship is easier to contend with. Romance is difficult to recognize as genuine or not unless it's someone else who is involved, which is why I'm happy to help Sybil. But I should admit I'd be less inclined to do so if it weren't for you."

"What do you mean?"

"The son of a servant would never be my first choice for a brother-in-law."

Matthew sighed and scratched his forehead.

"Come now," Mary said, "I'm being honest, and if you were honest with yourself, you'd understand mama and papa's objection—not agree with it, just understand it. My point is that your high opinion of Tom speaks well of him—puts him a different light. That's all I mean to say. And I mean it as a compliment to you, whether you believe it or not."

"So you value my opinion?"

"Are you surprised?"

"I am rather," Matthew continued in the same vein, "but you should know that I never believed I would ever have to argue Tom's case because I was always confident he'd win you all over—even Robert, and even if Robert has to be brought into it kicking and screaming."

"I would say let's hope it doesn't come to that, but you never know with papa."

"Robert—and you and your family—see love and marriage differently, and I'm not ignorant of that. There's a duty that you assign to it that people outside of your class aren't necessarily burdened with. Tom certainly isn't."

"Neither is Sybil," Mary said with a roll of her eyes. "There's one reason for their attraction."

"Are you?" Matthew asked.

Mary took a deep breath. "I was. I think I saw something of a comfort in it, something greater than myself always there to assure me that I was doing the right thing. Now, I know it's just another ingredient in a recipe that has too many already and just as likely as anything else to muddle the whole affair. What do you think?"

"Not every duty has to be seen as a burden," Matthew answered simply.

Mary narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. "That's not really an answer."

"What's the question?"

"Can a marriage be a loving one if duty is at the root of it?"

"I'm afraid that's one I don't have the wisdom to answer," Matthew said. He looked over at Mary, whose serene expression revealed nothing about what she expected him to answer. "But, whether duty plays a part or not, you know, love doesn't have to look like Tom and Sybil. Tom being Irish and Sybil being young and rather passionate in her own right, theirs is a rather open manifestation of love. For you and—"

"Who? Evelyn Napier?" Mary challenged, raising her eyebrow.

Matthew laughed. "I was going to say, 'the lucky fellow,' and I thought we'd put that behind us."

"We have," Mary said, "but I retain the right to hold it over your head."

"I said it before, of course, but you know that I only brought him along because I thought you might be interested in a second chance. I won't apologize for acting in an effort to help you be happy."

"I appreciate the intent, but you should know me well enough by now to know that I'm not incapable of acting on my own behalf—especially when the target is such an easy mark. That's the trouble with matchmaking. It's nothing more than others doing what they believe a woman can't do for herself."

"Mary, I'd like to think that you know _me_ well enough by now to know that I don't think you incapable of doing anything. You seem resigned to . . . not _unhappiness_ perhaps, but to a life that isn't what you once wished. Your life can be whatever you like, but from where I stand, you don't seem interested in making it more than it currently is. I believe you deserve everything in the world, and the idea of Evelyn Napier in your life again was perhaps wrong, but the end result I was after was only to get you to wake up."

Mary had stopped walking. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I want you to be happy, and if Mr. Napier is not the vehicle then tell me who or what it is and I will do anything to see that you have what you want. If we're friends, then you can be honest with me about that, can't you?"

Mary looked Matthew in the eyes for a long moment, then turned and kept walking without saying anything.

Matthew's shoulders drooped as he sighed, watching her walk away. He felt reasonably certain they were both ready to accept the solution that everyone was hoping for, but felt as if neither one wanted to be the one who articulated it for fear of offending the other. For Matthew the idea of being Mary's husband was not an offensive one—it was perfectly welcome—but there was a fear in him, one he couldn't pin down, that kept him from saying much more than he'd said to her up to this point. The reality was that Matthew had come to know Mary better than any man who'd come in pursuit of her heart had done, but the odd result was that he felt as if he barely knew her at all. The closer he got to the picture and the more he could see of the details that composed the whole, the less he could see the whole, and the more he lost sight of it.

After a moment, he followed her, but when he'd just about caught up, she turned suddenly again, and he sensed a nervous energy about her that he hadn't just moments before. Her cheeks were flush, as if she was trying to keep herself composed, but becoming frustrated that she couldn't.

"Matthew," she began, "I don't want you to think that I am not grateful for your concern on my behalf, because I am. Very grateful."

"But?"

Mary sighed, and Matthew couldn't help but see a tiny measure of what looked like regret in her eyes. His, by contrast, looked hopeful to her.

 _But hopeful for what?_ she asked herself. Unable to answer that question, she looked down and continued, "I don't want you to feel . . . _responsible_ for me."

"Mary—"

"I appreciate it, I do. But it's not necessary. I know that you feel as if you robbed me of something, and that is now likely made worse by the fact that it's clear both of my younger sisters will be married before I am."

She paused, needing a moment to accept that reality now that she had spoken it out loud.

Matthew wanted to say something, but waited for her to continue.

"I'm glad that you've come to understand what duty to the family and to Downton means to both papa and me. As to what I truly want . . . I wish that . . . "

"You wish what?" Matthew asked quietly

Mary smiled, but sadly, anxious. "I wish for things to be different than they are, a vague and capricious thing I've wished in one way or another every day of my life. I would never want to burden you with . . . well, with me."

"You were willing to burden Patrick," Matthew answered. "What made him so different?"

"My feelings really were not a burden to him. He wouldn't have cared about my happiness in the end . . . not the way I know you would. There's also the fact that it didn't matter to me whether _he_ was happy."

"And how do you know I wouldn't be?"

Matthew took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Enough to make Mary's eyes widen in anticipation, but not so much that she was sure of what would happen next.

He took a deep breath. _Just say it._ "How do you know I wouldn't be happy with you?"

"I . . . I _don't_ know." She looked down for a moment then back up again at him. Her lips had curled into a small smile. "Perhaps I just don't want to burden myself with _you_."

Matthew chuckled, appreciating her ability to bring lightness to what felt like a thickly charged moment between them. " _That_ I can believe."

"You should have more faith," Mary said, starting to walk again. "And anyway I despise false humility."

"You think me falsely humble?"

"No," Mary said with a smile. "You are many things—none of them false."

"A frightening assessment," Matthew said with a laugh, "especially coming from you."

"You are too humble for your own good sometimes. Too dutiful for your own good as well, which is at the root of this entire conversation."

"I don't know that I agree, but . . . now I'm curious. Do you think me a creature of duty?"

She looked at him form the side of his eyes. "Not entirely."

"What about you?" Matthew asked.

"What _about_ me?"

"When you laugh with me or flirt with me, is that a duty? Are you conforming to the fitness of things?" Matthew looked away for a moment and his voice softened before he spoke again. "Are you doing what's expected?"

"I'm always doing what's expected, Matthew. I just don't know whose expectations they are anymore."

She moved to turn away but he caught her arm. "I don't know what it is that's keeping us from saying what we both mean right now, but I'm done circling the issue."

"Matthew, don't—"

"We should get married."

Mary's heart jumped into her throat.

Matthew stepped around so he was facing her and took both of her hands in his. "Just think. You and I . . . it would solve so many things. Our duty to Downton, the worries of your parents, the fact that the estate should be yours and would be . . . and—and I don't think I flatter myself when I say that in the end, I think I could make you happy. And I know the same would be true of you with me."

Mary looked down at their joined hands. It was so close to what she wanted.

Lady Mary Crawley had never believed herself the kind of woman who needed to be swept off her feet, who needed to be loved eagerly and jealously. But here was the man she was in love with—for how could she possibly doubt that fact now—who was making, not a grand gesture steeped in passion and romance, but a sensible offer. Not what she _wanted_ from him, perhaps—because with Matthew she wanted it all—but what she _needed_. And all she could do was wonder if she could trust herself with what he was giving her.

When she looked into his eyes again, she saw that he seemed to be preparing for disappointment, and she wasn't sure what that meant.

"Think about it, anyway," he whispered, leaning forward and kissing her very lightly on the cheek.

He pulled away and let go of her hands. He was about to turn to continue walking, when she grabbed the lapel of his jacket.

"Wait," she said.

They looked at one another for one long heated moment.

Then they kissed.

Rather passionately for two people who'd not yet admitted to be in love.

Longer than Mary might have thought appropriate to do in public if she'd been able to think in the moment.

And, despite what they each believed was true of the feelings of the other, far, far longer than two people who professed to be considering nothing more than a marriage of convenience.

* * *

As she sat in the back seat of Anthony's car, next to Anthony himself, who made full use of his chauffeur while in town, Edith wondered about Sybil—whether she and Tom had met up by now. She smiled as she pictured Sybil seeing Tom and realizing what had been done to allow the young couple a day together behind Robert's back. Edith wished she could have been there.

In all honesty, as the car neared the London home of Mr. and Mrs. William Chetwood, she rather wished she could have been anywhere else than where she was—odd as a thing that was to wish when one was sitting next to one's beloved. Although she'd always meant to excuse herself from the outing Mary had "planned," the card that Carson had delivered to Edith that morning bearing the invitation to lunch with Mrs. Chetwood was a surprise. And after her sisters and Matthew had left Grantham House, Edith spent the rest of the morning fretting. Edith knew that formally introducing her to his sister meant that Anthony was growing nearer to formalizing their attachment, but despite how happy that made her, as the moment neared she could barely control her nerves.

She felt Anthony's hands come over hers on her lap and was immediately grateful for his steady, calm nature. He was not particularly effusive in terms of displays of affection—he'd not dared to even kiss her on the lips yet—so when those moments came, Edith treasured them. Anthony was a traditionalist of the highest order, not unlike her father in that regard, though a bit less inclined to object vocally to things he disagreed with the way Robert did. Edith liked that about Anthony. She'd found, over the course of the summer, after his return from his travels in Europe, that there was very little to dislike about Sir Anthony Strallan.

Except, of course, his sister.

"Don't be nervous, please," he said. "This is merely an introduction, not a test."

"Do I seem very nervous?"

"Only a bit, but it means very much that you are. I know Delilah can be . . . well, how she is. You're lovely for wanting to have her approval, but let me assure you again that you don't need it."

Edith smiled. "Well, I don't want to cause a rupture between you."

"And you won't," Anthony insisted. "Circumstances were different then, but even during my first marriage, she expressed little patience with my wife. It's in her nature to guard the people she loves very jealously. In time, once we're married and she welcomes you into her fold, she might do the same with you."

His words were delivered innocuously enough, but even so, when "once we're married" crossed his lips, Edith's already frayed nerves reached their limit. She cheeks blushed furiously and she felt so light-headed, she grabbed Anthony's shoulder to keep herself from falling into his lap.

"My dear Lady Edith, are you ill?" he asked, alarmed.

"No, no, no . . . I . . ." Edith took several deep breaths and got her bearings. Looking into Anthony's concerned face, she smiled as best she could and felt tears welling in her eyes that she could not help. "I'm very well indeed."

Anthony watched her for a moment, and then repeated the words he'd just spoken to himself.

_In time, once we're married . . ._

"Oh, heavens," he said, his worried expression growing even more so.

"Heavens?" Edith repeated. "Do you mean you don't . . . rather, didn't mean . . . what you just said."

"No," Anthony replied. "I just can't believe I've been so cavalier."

"Cavalier?" Edith repeated again, starting to grow confused.

"How can I not have said it before?!"

He looked up and saw that they'd just arrived at the Chetwood mansion.

Edith looked outside and noticed, too, that they had arrived, and that the family must have been waiting for them because as soon as the motor came to a stop, a footman opened the door and stepped outside to open the door for Edith.

Before Edith had a chance to move, Anthony leaned over and said, "Do give us a minute, please!"

"Of course, sir," the footman replied and closed the door again.

Anthony leaned back into his seat with a smile. He took Edith's hand in his and opened his mouth to speak, but after a beat, he closed it again. He looked around the inside of the motor and shook his head.

"This really won't do," he said quietly, as if to himself.

Edith remained unsure as to what was happening. "Anthony, what's going on? Shouldn't we go in?"

Looking at her again, he said, "Pardon me for being so unprepared. Wait here."

He opened the door on his side of the motor and stepped out, leaving a bewildered Edith behind. Seeing him coming around the motor, the footman sprang to action quickly and moved to open Edith's door, but Anthony held up his hand. "We need another minute."

The footman then went back to the front door to open it for Anthony, and when it closed again behind them, Edith felt like crying, but for different reasons than before.

She closed her eyes and repeated his words over and over in her head. She had not misheard. She was sure. He had addressed her as his future wife. She knew that he'd spoken to her father, but despite all the time they'd spent together, he'd not made a formal ovation of love. He'd not told her, in so many words, "I want to marry you." Edith was so happy spending time with him that despite the setback they'd had due to Mrs. Chetwood's disapproval the year before, Edith had allowed herself to hope once again. And more than anything, she'd allowed herself to enjoy their time together without too much thought to what might happen. Edith was enjoying being in the moment, feeling cherished and important to someone.

She was enjoying it, until just now, anyway, when hearing Anthony speak the words aloud nearly caused her to breakdown. She hadn't realized just how unsure she still felt until his sudden erratic behavior in the immediate aftermath of saying such a lovely thing caused her to begin to wonder, once again, if she'd imagined it all. Or, worse, if upon saying it aloud, the reality of a life with her no longer seemed like a welcome development.

He was gone mere minutes, but so long it felt to Edith that she considered trying to save face by stepping out of the car and leaving on her own on foot. If he'd been gone any longer, she might have done.

Inside, Delilah had been ready to welcome their guests, but looked immediately puzzled when Anthony came in alone.

"What's happened? Where's Lady Edith? Don't tell me you've come to your senses."

Anthony sighed, clearly exasperated. "Delilah, don't start. She's outside, but we need a minute."

"Is she all right?"

"May we step into the garden for a moment?"

"The garden?"

"Yes. It'll only take a moment, and then we may proceed with luncheon. I am very sorry to be so unorthodox, but I do feel some urgency now."

"I suppose if you must," Delilah answered, pursing her lips, unsure of what had come over Anthony—other than the influence of a girl Delilah could not bring herself to get excited over. "I'll just be in the drawing room whenever you're ready."

"Thank you, dear sister," Anthony said, smiling again. "It shall be a celebratory luncheon, I hope."

Delilah rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say, dear brother," she said, before turning and walking away.

Anthony took a deep breath, then motioned to the footman. "Now, we are ready."

The young man opened the front door again, stepped through it and opened the motor door, on the other side of which was Edith, who'd begun preparing herself for another humiliation.

"Anthony, if there is something wrong, please tell me now and then take me home. I don't know if I can manage to be myself in a stranger's house if there's something wrong."

"I'm so very sorry for making you wait, but I think all will be well in a few minutes. I hope, in any case."

He offered his arm, and Edith took it reluctantly. After stepping through the door, Edith expected to see Mrs. Chetwood, but there was no one to greet them. Anthony didn't seem surprised by this, so she said nothing and continued—led by him—through the entrance hall and through a small sitting room with grand piano that seemed built specifically to listen to music, at the other end of which were French doors leading to a small garden. The space was small, but nicely landscaped and in full summer bloom. Anthony stopped when they were at the center of it.

He turned toward Edith, and just as she was about to ask again what was going on, he took off his hat and kneeled in front of her.

Edith gasped and brought a hand to her face.

"My dearest Lady Edith, will you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?"

Edith closed her eyes and turned her head away, willing herself not to act the silly fool at this of all possible moments. Several deep breaths later, confident in her composure in a way she'd never been in her entirely life, a clear-eyed Edith turned back to the man before her and said, simply, "Yes."

He took her hand and kissed it. Standing again, he said, "I am the happiest of men," and for the first time, leaned over and kissed Lady Edith Crawley as only a husband would.

* * *

They had walked about fifty yards away from Mary and Matthew, heading northwest into the heart of the park, when Sybil stopped and looked back to see them in the same spot she and Tom had left them. Turning to Tom, she said, "Do you suppose we're far enough away now?"

Tom laughed. "Do you really care that much that they see us?"

Sybil smiled cheekily. "No."

Tom took his hat off and leaned down to kiss her properly. After a moment, he sought to pull away, but felt Sybil's hand on his neck pulling him back in. He laughed into her lips and into another, longer kiss.

When they both pulled away, she sighed. "Golly, it's been too long."

Tom smiled sweetly. "A few minutes is too long, but let's not risk getting arrested for indecency."

Sybil rolled her eyes but followed his lead as he turned to walk further into the park. They'd been holding hands, but she let go and instead tucked her hand into his elbow to feel closer to him.

"So where should we go?" Tom asked.

Sybil looked to the right and could see Speakers Corner in the distance. "It's a shame there's not a debate or rally going on today."

"I'm sure we could find one, if we really wanted to." Tom raised his eyebrows as if asking the question.

Sybil thought for a moment, then, with a sigh, said, "Perhaps we should keep things simple. With our luck one or both of us would get arrested, and then papa would banish both of us forever." Sybil laughed for a moment and added, "Or perhaps that's the very reason we should."

Tom laughed, but then thought for a moment and asked quietly. "You don't really want that, do you? For your family to cast you away?"

"I don't," Sybil replied. "But it's complicated. It's not just that I wish they wouldn't punish me that way for wanting the things I want, although that is true. I also wish they wouldn't think the things I want are so radical."

"So you want both forgiveness and understanding," Tom said.

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"That's a lot to ask."

"I am starting to see that I want too much from the world," Sybil said.

"Well," Tom said. "You may not have everything in the end, but there's no harm in asking for it all. You never know."

Sybil smiled. "And what do you want, Mr. Branson."

"I can think of lots of ways to answer that question, but it all boils down to you," he said raising his eyebrows.

Sybil blushed and squeezed his arm. "Don't be cheeky with me, darling. I'm asking a real question."

"And I'm giving you a real answer!"

Sybil rolled her eyes, trying to keep herself from smiling.

Tom stopped and turned to look her in the eye. "Honestly, Sybil. Whether you think it's cheek or not, I only wish for one thing in my life . . . to be with you."

Sybil smiled and the two shared a small kiss.

After pulling away he sighed and said, "Actually, that's not entirely true. There's something—well, _someone_ else."

Sybil noticed a sad look in his eyes. "Who?" she asked.

"My brother."

She smiled sadly. "Would that he could prove as easy to find as I was to make fall in love with you, because I dare say that took very little effort on your part."

"I've started looking for him. In earnest."

"How so?"

Tom looked around. "Can we find a place to sit down?"

"Let's go to Kensington Gardens. There are benches there."

They crossed over the Serpentine into the gardens, and Sybil led them toward the Round Pond. They sat at a bench from which Kensington Palace was visible in the distance. Tom looked at it absently for a long moment after they'd sat down.

"Fancy living in a place like that?"

"I don't as it happens," Sybil replied, watching him.

Tom turned toward her.

"One can't be a child in such a place. It's a bit like a museum, so I imagine its residents begin to feel like part of the scenery after a while. Downton was bad enough."

Tom smiled and looked back out over the water. "I went to see Sir John Wilkes yesterday."

Sybil blinked in surprise. "Imogen's father?"

Tom nodded. "When they visited Downton the first time and then again at the garden party last year, we conversed at some length. His shipping company does business in Cork, a port town in the south of Ireland. It's where da met Ciaran Harrington's mother, and where they lived while they were married. Ciaran would have been born there if she hadn't gone back to her family. When mam and I went to look for him in Dublin . . . the address he wrote on the letter . . . the landlord knew little about where he might have gone, but he mentioned that he'd heard Ciaran mention a desire to visit Cork. It makes sense that he'd go there if he were looking for information about da. It's not much to go on, but it's just about all I have. I asked Sir John if he could connect me with someone there who might help."

"Do you mean to travel there?" Sybil asked quietly.

"I don't know what I would do there once I arrived, but yes. It would likely come to nothing, but . . ."

"But you need to try."

Tom looked at Sybil again, grateful for her understanding. "I do. I'll drive myself mad otherwise. I think I'll go to Belfast as well."

"Where he was from?"

"The woman who raised him is dead, but there was no mention of her husband in the letter. Ciaran didn't much like him from the sound of it, but again—"

"It's all you have."

Tom nodded again.

"When do you mean to go?"

"That depends."

Sybil turned her head slightly. "On what?"

Tom smiled. "You, I think."

"Me?"

He turned himself so that he was looking her in the eye and took one of her hands. "I know we've talked of a future together many times, but it's always in abstract terms—some era in our lives an vague and indeterminate amount of time in the future, but Sybil . . . I love you. I am more certain of that than I am of anything. I know we are young and I know all that will be said of a match between someone like you and someone like me, but if we're to be married . . . why not do it now? We can take a month to honeymoon in Ireland. Not just to see about my brother, but so you can see where I am from, meet my family and my cousins . . . see that parts of me that are only made alive when I'm there. Then, when we return in the fall, we can take a small flat in London and you can continue your studies until it's time for you to enroll at the college." Tom bit his lip as he watched so many emotions come over Sybil's bright eyes. "What do you think?"

Sybil shook her head slightly as if trying to get her bearings. She felt her heart racing inside herself. "I heard 'married' and 'why not now' and I'm afraid it all turns a little bit loopy after that," she said, laughing, incredulous. "Did you just propose to me?"

Tom blushed. "Well, not exactly, though now that you mention it . . ." He stood and moved to kneel in front of her.

"What are you doing?"

Tom looked at her confused. "I'm kneeling. Isn't that what's done?"

Sybil pulled on his hands so he would sit once again. "No—well, yes, I suppose—but with us . . . I want us to be looking at each other face-to-face."

Tom smiled widely as he sat down again. "Dearest Sybil, will you marry me?"

"Dearest Tom, will you marry me?"

He laughed. "Together."

Sybil nodded.

"Yes!" They said in union and came together in a deep kiss.

Tom pulled away and asked, "What about Ireland? Will you come with me?"

"I'm ready to travel," Sybil replied, beaming, "and you're my ticket."

Tom stood, pulling her up with him and she jumped into his arms and he pulled her into him for a long embrace that lifted her clear off the ground.

When he set her back down, Sybil still felt like she was floating so happy was she. She regarded him for a moment before finally saying, "Now comes the hardest task."

"Getting your parents' approval," Tom said, feeling the weight of those words as he spoke them.

"I'd walk to the nearest registry office right now if I could but . . ."

"You can't without Robert's permission."

"Rather infuriating, but what can we do?"

"I suppose showing up to asking them tonight is out of the question, yes?"

"I believe so," Sybil replied. "A week ago, I might have thought it romantic for you to barge in uninvited, but having been to a number of these balls now . . . no matter how much my family may profess that this is _my_ day or that this is all for _me_. The truth is that this is about _them_. To ruin the evening—mind, your presence wouldn't ruin in it for me—to thumb our noses at something that means so much to papa, and that mama has been planning for months would be disrespectful . . . at least, that's how they would see it. We may have little patience for their rituals but the fact remains that if we make a fuss . . . they might make a fuss for us. Which is all to say, I don't want to risk not having their permission. Not if it means having to wait another year."

Tom sighed. "Believe it or not, I agree. I've been mulling it over since Matthew told me that Mary planned to make time for us to meet here. Tonight means more to your parents than it does to you and me, and we gain little by taking it away from them."

"I suppose that bit's settled, then," Sybil said.

"I also think"—Tom laughed to himself as he spoke—"this will sound a bit odd, given that I've just asked you to marry me, but . . . I suppose it would be fair for you to have a good long look at the life you'll be giving up for me—and to do it without me there to cloud your judgment—so you may be sure what I'm offering you is what you really want."

Sybil smiled. "I think you just want to avoid wearing your set of tails."

Tom laughed heartily. "It's a bit frightening how well you've gotten to know me."

"That means I won't see you until we return to Downton next month."

"It'll go faster for you than for me."

"I don't know about that."

They looked at one another, both shining with happiness.

"At the garden party," Sybil said. "We'll tell them then."


	50. A Red Letter Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks the action back up the same day the last chapter ended, but later, at Sybil's ball and follows a series of conversations—including one fairly serious throw down between Edith and Mary—that set up the major drama that's going to unfold in the next few chapters, up to and including the bombshell that this chapter ends with. 
> 
> A word on Mary and Edith. They are mean to each other here in the vein that we saw on the show in series 1. I love both of the characters and have never felt an interest to pick a side. My intention is not to force you, dear readers, to pick one either—and I don't intend or expect minds to be changed if you already have. Sisters can be cruel one minute and love each other fiercely the next. I believe what I've written is fair, but the ultimate point is that emotions are running extremely high for everyone. The lives of the sisters and everyone in the family are in a state of flux and much drama is still to come. 

 

The second Earl of Grantham wasn't much for London life. He knew that it was inevitable, but he endured it only as long as he felt required to by his wife. Grantham House, though lovely in its own right, could never substitute for his beloved Downton Abbey, to say nothing of the gardens there, which were his favorite retreat his whole life.

During his daughter's first season, in an effort to bring a bit of the country to town, he decided to build a small terrace at the back of Grantham House. Given how little room there was, he could only fit one stone bench and one small marble fountain. It was just enough room for two people to sit and enjoy a quiet, intimate conversation. It was far enough away from the noise of the street that it was easy to pretend, if he closed his eyes, that he was back up north. None of the earls who followed, or their wives or children, enjoyed the terrace as much as this earl had done. And so it was that in the years after his death, the gardener who saw to the greenery in and around the London house began to neglect the space, and it eventually became overgrown with grass and ivy.

Perhaps because it was overgrown and neglected, the terrace became a favorite spot of Patrick Crawley in his early adolescence. He wasn't one for self-reflection, but like his ancestor, he preferred the quiet of the country and liked having a spot that was just his own, where it was unlikely his father, his uncle or his cousins would ever go or think to look for him. He never bothered having it cleaned up. He liked it just as it was.

No one had gotten near the terrace since Patrick's untimely death at sea, until just before Sybil's ball, when Edith found herself standing in the middle of it by the fading light of the late evening sun, remembering the last time she had set foot there.

* * *

 

_"What is this place?" Edith asked looking around warily._

_Patrick laughed at the way Edith crinkled her nose as she looked around. "This," he said with a sweep of his arm, "is a place I am never bothered."_

_"I didn't even know there was a way to come out here," Edith said. "How did you find it?"_

_"I could always see the fountain from my room here. One day, I just walked around the house until I found it."_

_"Why?"_

_"Do I really need to explain to_ you _of all people why I sometimes just want to get away from everyone in this family?"_

_Edith laughed humorlessly. "No." She eyed the bench warily before sitting down._

_Patrick watched her as she did so and a small smile came over his face when she looked up to him expectantly. Edith felt at once nervous and at ease, a mix of emotions that only Patrick ever inspired in her._

_Patrick knew that Edith loved him unconditionally, and he loved her for it. Everyone in his life questioned him at every turn, but not Edith. Never Edith. From childhood, she'd worshipped him, perhaps looking to cast him in the role of loving older sibling that Mary continually refused to play for her. Age and time had changed the nature of that love, but not their relationship. Edith loved by giving and Patrick loved by taking. Anytime he felt down and needed to puff himself up, he'd seek her out and a few minutes of her undivided attention would do the trick. He knew himself well enough to know that there was little balance in this arrangement, but he also knew Edith, which meant that he knew that by accepting her attention as he did, he made her feel worthy in a way no other person in the family could match—in a way no other person in the family even bothered to match._

_No one calmed him like Edith could. Certainly not Mary, whose interaction with him had always been fraught with tension and distrust. He loved them both, and he knew both loved him back, but where Edith's love was selfless to a fault, Mary's love was demanding in a way that excited and exhausted him in equal measure. If he were a better kind of man, he'd make clear to his father and uncle that Edith, not Mary, was meant to be his wife and do his best to find Mary a duke or a marquis to her liking who would make up for her not being countess of Grantham and all would be settled. But Patrick knew himself at least well enough to know that he was not capable of giving up his power over the sister everyone wanted, and though he didn't love Edith so well as Edith loved him, he loved her at least well enough to believe that she deserved better than him anyway. And no matter what the rest of the family—or even Edith herself—might think of her prospects, he knew she'd find such a man someday._

_"So, did you enjoy yourself last night?" he asked. "Your first ball doesn't happen every day."_

_Edith sighed. "It was fine enough, I suppose."_

_"Fine enough?!" Patrick retorted annoyed. "I danced with you practically all night!"_

_"That's the point," Edith said. "The only man who wants to dance with me is you."_

_"Perhaps that's precisely as I planned it."_

_Edith looked at him from the side of her eyes. "Is it?"_

_Patrick chuckled quietly. "No."_

_"And if that weren't bad enough on its own," Edith continued, "I have to hear Mary complain all through breakfast about how much her feet hurt from not sitting down all night. I was there. I saw everyone fawning over her. There was no need for her to rub my face in it. Why must she do that!?"_

_"Why must you care?"_

_Edith crossed her arms and shifted so she was looking away._

_Patrick chuckled again and sat down next to her, putting his around her and pulling her into him. "Darling, forget Mary."_

_"She won't let me."_

_"Of course, she won't. Mary is the kind of person who doesn't care what anyone thinks, except that she cares very much that they_ know _she doesn't care what they think."_

_"That doesn't make any sense."_

_"Neither does she."_

_Edith laughed in spite of herself. She turned toward him again and felt her cheeks flush slightly realizing how close they were. Patrick noticed and couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from curling up into a slight smirk, which compounded Edith's embarrassment._

_"Mary doesn't have to make sense," Edith said quietly, looking down. "You don't love her so well as you love me and yet you plan on marrying her."_

_Patrick set the arm that had been around her down and looked away for a moment, then looked back at Edith, the smirk gone from his face. "I am not planning anything. Father and Uncle Robert have plans, but I think for them to go off the parties have to agree, don't they?"_

_"She loves you. No matter what she says she will go through with it."_

_"She loves Downton, not me, and we'll likely make each other miserable. Does that knowledge make you feel better?"_

_Edith bit her lip, but doing so didn't keep the tear that welled in her eye from spilling onto her cheek. Patrick brought his hand up to Edith's face and wiped her cheek with his thumb. Slowly, he brought his thumb back across her cheek, over her lips, then down her chin._

_Edith felt her heart start to race. "Patrick?" she whispered._

_Her voice took him out of his reverie, and he let go and stood abruptly. "You're probably wondering why I brought you here."_

_Edith ran her hand over the cheek he had just caressed, wishing that the sensation of him touching her so intimately would go away so she would not want to keep remembering it later._

_"I have something for you."_

_Edith looked up again and watched as Patrick took a small silk bag out of his pocket. He held it out for her to take and watched as she opened the bag carefully and pulled out a short string of pearls with a pendant in the middle, a small opal inlaid in gold. She looked up to him again, not knowing what to say._

_"It was mother's. Do you recognize it? Her favorite, as a matter of fact. I don't know why I held on to it all these years. She was always rather fond of you. I thought . . . to mark your season."_

_Edith looked down at the necklace in her hand. "It's beautiful."_

_"Come on," Patrick said pulling her up. "Let's see how it looks." Before Edith could protest, Patrick took the pearls from her and put his arms around her neck to put them on, never taking his eyes off hers._

_It was Edith who broke the stare, looking down to look at the necklace. "Thank you."_

_"I love you, Edith. I know you don't think so but I do, which is why I would never doom you to the miserable life my wife will lead. Somewhere out there, there is a man who will make you happier than I could."_

_Edith smiled sadly. "I wish I believed you. Anyway, I'm already miserable. I'd settle for misery next to you. You're the one who won't settle for me."_

_Patrick smiled back at Edith and took her chin between his fingers again. This time, he didn't stop himself. She didn't stop him either. The kiss lasted five long delicious seconds. When he pulled away, Edith opened her eyes first and watched as the serene expression on his face—quite unlike any she had seen on him before—gave way to his usual smirk._

_"Will you settle for that?" he asked with a wink. Not bothering to let Edith respond, he took her hand and led her back around the house and inside. Both went about their day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened._

_Patrick never told Edith because she'd never have believed him anyway, but that moment in the terrace was the first time he had ever properly kissed a woman. What he didn't know then was that it would be the only time, and it was one of a handful of memories that replayed over and over in his mind as he sat with his father in their room on the ship, waiting for death as the icy water creeped in._

* * *

 

Edith fingered the opal pendant around her neck as she stood over the stone bench. She felt overwhelmed by the rush of memories of Patrick, who was always lurking in the back of her mind but whom she hadn't actively thought about in months.

After lunch with her future sister-in-law Delilah Chetwood, during which nothing Delilah did or said could have distracted Edith from the feeling that she was floating on air, Anthony had brought Edith back home to Grantham House. They pulled Robert and Cora aside to share the news. Despite the fact that Sir Anthony had spent the better part of the last six months courting Edith, both Robert and Cora reacted with delighted surprise when told that Anthony had made an official offer of marriage to their middle daughter and had been accepted, as if they hadn't actually believed that the courtship would come to its logical conclusion. That Edith managed not to roll her eyes at her parents' continued and unabashed lack of faith in her was entirely due to her level of happiness at that moment. She and her mother agreed that Sybil would be delighted for her sister on hearing the news, but even so, both also agreed that it was only appropriate to wait until the next day to let everyone in the family know and give Sybil her night to shine. After, Anthony excused himself with the promise to return to celebrate Lady Sybil's coming out with the rest of the family that evening.

When it came time to put the finishing touches on her ensemble for the ball, Edith immediately went for her favorite necklace in her jewelry box. It wasn't until she looked at herself in the mirror with the string of pearls already around her neck, the shiny opal hanging at the center, that she remembered it had been Patrick who had given it to her. She took the necklace off immediately, holding it in her hand for a long moment and wondering about whether she should be wearing a token of the love of one man on the day of her engagement to another. She thought about that day, the walk she'd taken with Patrick around the house to the hidden terrace. She thought about the kiss. Looking at her reflection again, for reasons she couldn't explain even to herself, she put the necklace back on and immediately set off for the spot where she had received it.

Looking up to the sky and the fading light of the sun, Edith spoke aloud, "Are you happy for me?"

She didn't know what Patrick's answer might be to that question or how he'd have responded if he'd been alive to watch her get married. He alone had always assured her that a good and happy marriage was in the cards for her, even when her own parents acted as if all was lost at seventeen with only spinsterhood to follow. But when Patrick spoke that way—insisting that him not marrying her was for her own good—Edith had always seen it as a self-serving trick. Something he liked to say so she would feel better about herself, not something he actually believed. Now that she was here, on the precipice of a good and happy marriage, Edith felt the sincerity of Patrick's wishes on her behalf as surely as she felt the tears pooling in her eyes. Had he lived, it was likely that Edith might not have ever been as happy as she was now, with Anthony, but she realized that it would have been her own fault, because had Patrick lived, she would have held on to the hope that they would someday, somehow find a way to be together.

The future she'd wanted with Patrick was gone forever because he was gone forever, but the future he had wanted for her—a good life with a better man—was here now and ready for her to start. She would always miss Patrick, and she would always regret his death, but in death, he'd given her passage to the very happiness that he had always told her would come. For that reason alone, for that one piece of goodness in Patrick James Crawley, she held on to her necklace.

* * *

Hours later, with Sybil's ball in full swing, Edith's contemplations about the cousin she had once loved were completely behind her and she was once again bright-eyed and barely able to stop smiling. Anthony hardly left her side all night, and was determined, it seemed, to give the young men present a run for their money in the dancing department. He shared one dance with Cora, during which Edith walked over to a comparatively quiet spot at the edge of the room. When she turned to see Mrs. Chetwood approaching her, Edith wondered how closely Mrs. Chetwood must have been watching her and Anthony to catch Edith in a rare moment alone.

Knowing now that Delilah would be her family, Edith sought to be as amiable as possible. Seeing Delilah's purposeful stride and humorless expression however did little to suggest Delilah planned to take the same approach to their relationship, so in spite of herself, Edith grew nervous.

"Hello, Mrs. Chetwood," Edith said, smiling with as much good feeling as she could muster. "I hope you've been enjoying yourself tonight."

"Surely, you can call me Delilah now that we are going to be sisters, Lady Edith," Delilah replied in a tone that suggested she did not actually want to be taken at her word.

"Well, I hope you do the same for me—that is, call me Edith."

Delilah looked Edith up and down and sighed. "All right, then, Edith, you've won this round so I shall congratulate you."

Edith looked down. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm fairly certain you do. I won't do you the disservice of pretending that I approve of my brother's attachment to you. Having no prospects whatsoever, you managed to lure him by appealing to his ghastly interest in automobiles and he's simply too nice a person to shoo you away and hold out for what he deserves. He won't be talked out of this engagement, so I won't waste my time continuing to try to do, but let me just say that having grown up at Locksley I have a great interest in its running and will do everything I can to make sure that you don't—"

"Mrs. Chetwood, how are you?" Mary said blithely stepping on Delilah's diatribe as if she hadn't been speaking at all. "I hope you're enjoying yourself. This must all be rather exciting for you. The season is a bit routine for Edith and me, but I imagine that the wife of a . . . oh, heavens, I'm afraid I don't even know who your husband is! But never mind, with Edith as your sister-in-law you will surely have a regular entry into London society."

Delilah forced a smile and said, "Thank you, Lady Mary, but it so happens that my husband and I do the season every year."

"Oh, that's nice," Mary replied, airily. Then, looking back and forth between Delilah and a flabbergasted Edith, Mary added, "Did I interrupt?"

"No," Edith said quickly, barely hanging on to her bearings. " _Mrs. Chetwood_ , was just leaving."

Having nothing left to say, Delilah did just that, leaving the two sisters alone.

They stood without speaking, both watching the dancers in the middle of the room for several minutes.

"Why did you do that?" Edith asked, finally.

"She's an uppity cow who has no business putting the daughter of an earl in her place, and you didn't seem willing to stand up for yourself, so . . ."

Edith looked down at her wringing hands. "Thank you."

Mary looked over at her sister. "So he's made it official, has he?"

Edith looked up and nodded. "Just today."

"When are you going to tell mama and papa?"

"They know, but we didn't want to make a thing of it today for Sybil's sake."

Mary let out a laugh. "As if Sybil cared that much about what this day means."

Edith smiled, in spite of herself. "True. But it seemed inappropriate in any case."

"More or less appropriate than wearing a necklace given to you by another man on the day you get engaged?"

Edith's hand immediately went to her neck as a look of shock came over her face, not just at what Mary had said, but how off-handedly the words rolled off her tongue.

"Of course, _you_ would never realize that I knew," Mary said, with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "Or that I would recognize Cousin Sarah's favorite necklace. Patrick knew how much I loved it because I would always say so when she had it on. He was the one who told me it was a gift Sarah's father gave her mother when they were first married and that her mother then gave to Sarah when she came out. And do you want to know what he told me when you wore it the first time? He said, 'Do you like Edith's new necklace, Mary? It's beautiful, isn't it?' He taunted me about it just like he did everything else that was his by right instead of mine. Think whatever you like about it, but that stupid trinket is nothing but a weapon he used against me, which is all you ever were to him."

Whatever good feeling Edith might have felt toward Mary in the face of her dismissal of the hateful Mrs. Chetwood drained in an instant and was replaced by the usual mix of hurt, embarrassment and helplessness that Mary always managed to stir up in her younger sister. On this day, though, all that emotion was followed by a wave of anger unlike any Edith had ever felt toward Mary and despite the festive occasion, despite her current happiness, Edith let the anger rip through her without holding back. She took Mary by the arm and led her from the corner of the ballroom in which they were standing into a small, empty anteroom that led to the small library.

Once alone, and after taking a calming breath, Edith spoke quietly but forcefully, "I can't be surprised that he said all of that to you. Patrick wasn't a particularly nice person. There wasn't that much good in him, and when he was alive, that truth was hard for me to see, and do you know why? Because he saved that goodness for me! He loved me in a way no man has ever loved you. That's why he gave me this necklace. But of course you wouldn't think that. You're Queen Mary and the world exists only so that it may revolve around you. According to you, no man would ever do something nice for me except to make you jealous. Did he also tell you that he kissed me when he gave me this? Did he tell you that he told me he only planned on marrying you out of duty and guilt pushed on him by papa because you couldn't have Downton without him?"

Edith's face was red with anger, while Mary's betrayed little emotion. But Edith could see in Mary's eyes that her arrows had hit their mark.

Edith took several more deep breaths, and their effect this time was to turn her anger into sadness once again. Feeling tears well in her eyes, she continued, "I won't dismiss your feelings for Patrick, Mary, or his for you. I know they were real. And yet you must insist on dismissing mine. I had my reasons for loving him. For all his faults, Patrick always believed in me. He always told me that he knew I would marry a good man and have a great house, even as everyone else assumed spinsterhood would be my fate. And now his hopes for me have come true. I'm going to marry and I will have a position, and you can't help yourself. You have to belittle me or else you'd be forced to face the fact that your vanity is baseless because all you've ever been offered is a proposal born of pity. And on my wedding day, you'll have everyone's attention once again. No one will spare a thought for me because they'll be too busy wondering what's the matter with _you_."

Mary turned to walk away, but couldn't seem to make herself go. She needed to gather herself. It hadn't been her intention to start a fight, but seeing that necklace around Edith's neck, something snapped inside her. She couldn't _stop_ herself. Memories of Patrick, her complicated feelings for him in the face of his wholly uncomplicated relationship with Edith haunted Mary. She had never loved him as she now loved Matthew, but somehow Downton, her father, her position, the estate—everything—forced its way in, making a mess of her situation, to say nothing of her heart, while Edith had the room for a courtship entirely free of similar complexities, confusion or obstacles. Edith's words about "a proposal born of pity" were spoken about Patrick, but they cut deeply because they articulated Mary's exact fears regarding Matthew and the proposal he had made.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there, when she heard Edith again over her shoulder.

"Mary?" Edith's voice was quiet, no longer dripping with disdain. She sounded almost worried. "Why don't you want to get married?"

The question surprised Mary so much, she turned back around to face Edith. "What?"

"I dare say it took more effort on your part to turn away Evelyn Napier than accept him."

"I don't want to get married for mercenary reasons."

"You were willing to become engaged to Patrick, even though you did not love him. Does Downton really mean that much to you?"

"I loved Patrick. He didn't deserve it, but I did. It's pointless to talk about what ifs where he's concerned, but yes, Downton did mean that much to me. That's the one thing he understood about me—the thing you could never understand. I know now that I'd not have been happy as his wife, but that doesn't change the fact that securing Downton was important to me. It still is."

"If that's true, then why don't you and Matth—"

Mary couldn't let Edith finish the thought and cut her off by saying, "I am not jealous, Edith. Not about Patrick and not about the fact you're getting married before I am, but if you want to think so go ahead. You won the race. Congratulations. Think of my defeat as my engagement gift to you."

"Engagement gift?!"

Both Mary and Edith turned to see a smiling Sybil coming into the room.

"I've been looking for you two for ages," she said. "Did I just hear that right?"

Sybil looked expectantly between Mary and Edith. She sensed tension between them as they turned to look at one another, as if silently deciding whether they'd let Sybil in on their fight. But Sybil's very presence was like salve to the open wound between them. The acrimony overtaking them merely minutes before dissipated just like that, and without missing a beat, Mary stepped forward to take Sybil's hand and guide her in front of Edith.

"You're looking at a newly engaged woman," Mary said with a smile that Edith recognized came with some effort but was no less sincere for it.

Sybil's eyes widened in delight. "What? Sir Anthony proposed!?"

Both humbled by and grateful for Mary's grace in that moment, Edith blushed and nodded.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Sybil asked, stepping forward to hug Edith.

"She didn't want to detract from you today," Mary answered for her, "Though I told her you wouldn't have minded."

"Of course, I wouldn't have—rather, I don't mind!" Sybil said. "I'm so happy for you, darling."

"Thank you," Edith said. "I can't quite believe it."

"And it happened today? That is, he asked while you were out this morning?" Sybil asked.

Edith nodded. "Just before we had luncheon with Mrs. Chetwood."

"Speaking of," Mary interject. "You really do need to learn to stand up to her, Edith, or she'll make your life miserable. If Sir Anthony's too kind a man to put her in her place. You must learn to do it."

"I know," Edith replied. "And thank you, really, for earlier. I was hoping we'd start out on better footing and then couldn't get past the shock that she'd be so vile after being so welcoming in front of Anthony today."

"That's so funny," Sybil said.

Mary and Edith looked over to her, confused as to her response, but Mary saw that she had something of a faraway look in her eye, as if she hadn't been paying attention just then.

"What is it, darling?" Mary said.

Sybil looked back and forth between them again, biting her lip in a way Mary knew meant she was trying to decide whether to spill a secret.

"What do you think is so funny?" Mary asked again.

"Well," Sybil said, drawing the word out. "It's funny that Sir Anthony proposed today—this morning—because . . ."

"Because what?" Edith asked.

Sybil locked eyes with Mary, which was all the signal Mary needed. Mary buried her face in her hands to try to stop herself laughing.

"What?!" Edith said, still confused.

"Let me guess," Mary said, still grinning, "Tom proposed to you this morning?"

"Yes!" Sybil exclaimed.

Edith's jaw dropped. "WHAT!"

"Shhhh!" Sybil said putting her hands over Edith's mouth. "You mustn't tell anyone. Neither of you. Tom and I have a plan. We want to tell mama and papa on our own time and together, which means we're waiting until we're back at Downton."

"I can't believe it!" Edith said smiling. "I mean, not about you two getting engaged—that's no surprise—only that it would happen on the same day as Anthony and me!"

"It's a red letter day," Mary said quietly, almost to herself, in a way that gave Sybil pause. Whether Mary felt overwhelmed by news of an engagement coming from both of her sisters in one day was not something her demeanor—over which she always had strict control—would ever betray. But Sybil still wanted to ensure she was all right.

"Why don't we go back to the party," she said, gesturing toward the entryway back into the ball. "Now that we actually have something real to celebrate, even if it's only between us."

Edith and Mary looked at each other and smiled at Sybil's exuberance, and followed her. The three sisters stepped back out into the ballroom, and no sooner had they done so, that Sir Anthony came up to them. Not wanting to put him on the spot, given that he didn't know that her sisters knew that they were engaged, Edith asked if he would go with her to get some refreshment. Sir Anthony offered his arm, and they were on their way, leaving Sybil with Mary.

"I know the future is hard to predict," Sybil said, "but I do think that they will be happy. Certainly, I am happy for them."

"As am I," Mary added.

Sybil turned to look her in the eye, as if skeptical of Mary's last words, which caused Mary to laugh and roll her eyes. "Oh, you know that I wouldn't say it to you if I didn't mean it."

"I know you wouldn't," Sybil said with a smile. "What about you, Mary? Are you happy?"

"Happy that both of my sisters are going to be married before I am? What do you think?"

"I think that a lack of offers does not equal lack of worth."

"Well put."

"I'm not asking about what you think of your current prospects. I want to know if you're happy in general, because if you are not, I want to help."

"Actually," Mary said, looking around to make sure nobody would overhear her. She pulled Sybil back to the wall, and whispered, "I am not lacking for offers.

Sybil's eyes widened. "Evelyn Napier?"

Mary shook her head once more. "Matthew."

"WHAT?!"

"Quiet!"

Sybil put her hands over her mouth, but her eyes still beamed with delight. "Matthew proposed to you today?! It really is a red letter day!"

"It wasn't like that," Mary whispered. "It wasn't romantic or anything. He didn't _ask_ me, so much as state plainly that we should. Well, that's not fair to say either—oh, you know Matthew, it was offered as more of a polite suggestion."

"A polite suggestion that you two get married?!"

Mary nodded. "I think he feels . . . um, _guilt_ about inheriting Downton."

"Mary, I think he _feels_ a great deal more than that! Tom would agree with me on that, I know he would."

"Would he say that Matthew has told him that he loves me and wants to spend his life with me?" Mary asked pointedly.

"Well, no, not so unequivocally, but then Matthew is Matthew as you say—he would never say as much aloud to anyone but you."

"And he hasn't said it to me is the point," Mary said, looking down knowing that Sybil could tell that this fact disappointed her. "I will concede that he is . . . _confused_ about his feelings for me, and likewise concede only as much about my own feelings."

"Mary—"

"Sybil, I've said as much as I want to say on it, if you don't mind."

Sybil's shoulders drooped as she sighed, smiling a bit sadly. Mary seemed so close to admitting that the thing that would make her happiest was there for her to accept, Sybil wasn't sure how to respond. She wondered how could love in marriage have come to her and Edith so easily, and not so easily to Mary. She didn't realize, of course, that all great loves have complications, and Mary and Matthew's would turn out to be entirely about their hearts' similar habit of ill timing.

"May I ask why you didn't say anything just now, to Edith?" Sybil asked.

"She'd have accused me of stepping on her toes," Mary replied.

"Mary, how can you think that. She did no such thing to me! You were there just now when I told her about me and Tom."

"She didn't mind such a coincidence coming from you, but do you honestly believe that if I told her Matthew proposed to me on the same day she and Anthony got engaged, she wouldn't accuse me of stealing her thunder?"

"You should learn to give her the benefit of the doubt."

"If I told her, mama and papa finding out would be inevitable, and even if Edith didn't accuse me of stealing her thunder mama and papa would fawn all over Matthew and be so happy I'm finally coupled off after all the effort it took—"

"She'd feel diminished by their lack of attention," Sybil finished for Mary, conceding the point.

"And she'd blame me!" Mary finished. "Anyway, darling, I didn't tell her because I don't want anyone to know, so please don't tell, not even Tom."

"Why?"

"I just want to give myself time to think about it, which is what I'd told him I'd do. Mama will try to bully me into it, and I need to make a decision about this on my terms. I owe Matthew that much."

"Well, I believe he'll make you very happy, but that's all I'll say about it."

Mary smiled. "Thank you."

"Let's get back to it, shall we? Otherwise mama will wonder why we're off in a corner and start asking questions." Sybil took Mary's hand and led her back to nearer the middle of the room where people were milling about around the dance floor. As they did so, they both spotted Imogen looking around and weaving around several people before she spotted them and grinned.

"Heavens, there's Imogen," Mary said. "I'll leave you so you can give her your undivided attention."

Sybil laughed as Mary walked off, knowing how little patience Mary had for the ramblings of her chatty friend.

Sybil smiled as she watched Imogen approach. As happy and animated as Imogen had been at her own ball last night, Sybil could see that she was even more so tonight, like a light had come on inside her. Sybil wondered now if Tom Bellasis was the reason.

He and Imogen had remained closely attached for the rest of the night after the talk Sybil had with him. In fact, later on, Sybil managed to pull him away only long enough to ask if he would dance with her to start her ball the next night. The question, which hadn't occurred to Sybil until Imogen herself had asked, took him by surprise.

* * *

 

_"Me?"_

_"If you'd rather not, or if—given what you've told me of Imogen—you feel it's inappropriate I don't mind. It's only that . . . I don't want my parents to make a thing of it, and if it's not—"_

_"If it's not the person you'd really prefer to be dancing with, you'll settle for me?" Bellasis asked with a raised eyebrow._

_Sybil blushed slightly. "It sounds like a terrible thing to ask when you put it that way."_

_Bellasis' smirk softened into a smile. "I'd be honored. As you friend, and_ only _your friend."_

_Sybil smiled back. "Thank you."_

_"May I ask why the person you'd really prefer to be dancing with is not going to be there?"_

_Sybil sighed. "It's complicated."_

_"Isn't it always."_

_"You've met, as it happens," Sybil said, deciding she trusted Bellasis enough to let him in. "It's Mr. Branson."_

_"The one at your family's garden party last year?"_

_"The very same," Sybil said._

_"But he's a family friend, then."_

_"Like I said, it's complicated."_

_"It's funny the number of rules we set around who we marry. As if love weren't troublesome enough on its own."_

_Sybil smiled. "I'm glad we met, Mr. Bellasis. I have a feeling we're going to be friends for a long time."_

_"Me too, Lady Sybil. Me too."_

* * *

 

Imogen grabbed both of Sybil's hands when she finally got to her. "Oh, darling I have the best news!"

"News? I only spoke to you last a few minutes ago."

"Well, I just spoke with Lady Emma Stanford," Imogen said, "and she and her mother would like to attend the luncheon as well!"

"Oh my! But how did we think not to invite them?" Sybil said, "I told mama to give me the complete list of people who were here tonight."

"She may have removed the people she thought would be offended by the idea of women working as doctors, or women voting or doing anything at all that's very modern. I know mother did as much with my list, but she told me she did it to ensure the audience at our event would be truly welcoming of the ideas there presented and thus more willing to open their checkbooks."

"I suppose that's sensible enough," Sybil said, "though I wonder if _my_ mother was just focused on not offending anyone."

"But don't you see, dear, people are talking about what we're doing and to such a degree that it's intriguing others into coming! I do wonder now if we'll have enough space."

"A wonderful problem to have indeed," Sybil said with a grin.

"Perhaps you should charge for entry. I can't think of anything that would entice people more than being told the entertainment is worth paying for."

Imogen and Sybil both turned to see Tom Bellasis, standing next to them.

"Imogen told me you conceived of this idea of a charity luncheon to benefit the hospital the day after your presentation," he continued. "That was hardly a week ago. I marvel at the speed at which the thing has come together."

"Well, it would be fair to say, we've spent every waking moment on it, save tonight—and last night," Sybil said.

"My mother received her invitation this morning," Bellasis said. "She said she plans on attending, though I have to say I was quite disappointed that it was addressed to her alone. I'm quite interested in coming. I'm the patron of the hospital, after all—or, I will be someday."

"It's an event by women _for_ women," Sybil replied. "I'm afraid no men are allowed."

He smirked. "Very well, but I am very sorry to miss it and very eager to contribute to the cause."

"That's duly noted," Imogen said, with a sparkle in her eyes that Sybil could see come only in his presence. "And it's appreciated."

There was a nervous energy between Bellasis and Imogen that Sybil found endearing. Hoping it didn't seem like an obvious ploy, she said, "If you two don't mind, I'm going to excuse myself. I promised a schoolmate of my father's a dance earlier and he already seemed three sheets to the wind when he asked. I should find him now before I'll be forced to hold him up myself."

Bellasis and Imogen both laughed, but once Sybil was gone and they were alone together they quieted again.

Imogen turned to look at him only to find his eyes on her already, as if he'd not stopped looking at her, even as Sybil was walking away.

"Did your mother really say she would come?"

Bellasis nodded. "She was surprised by the invitation, since it was made after she turned down the invitation to your ball . . . I think it's a combination of curiosity about you and, well, mother is too kind a person to turn anyone down twice."

"I feel so silly. I'll be very honest and say that it didn't really occur to me that I was inviting someone who had just declined an invitation from me—although it really wasn't me making that invitation, and it isn't just me now. It's myself and Sybil. But, obviously, she would associate them both directly with me, and why wouldn't she. I would, too. But then your family is friends with both mine and Sybil's and there's the connection to the hospital itself. How absurd a thing would it be to hold a charity luncheon for a medical college and hospital and not invite the entire family of the patron—well, all the women, anyway, given that only women are to come. But oh, heavens, the patron! Your uncle! What in the world is _he_ going to think! He asked your mother to refuse one invitation. Would he do the same for this event? Oh, do you think she will refuse again? What a predicament for her to be in! How could I have been so thoughtless to put her in it! Mr. Bellasis, please be honest with me, have I made a complete and utter mess of things and do be honest because—"

Imogen stopped short when, as she was speaking, she looked down and saw that Bellasis had taken both of her hands in his and interlaced their fingers.

"Because why?" he said in a serious voice.

"I'd hate to make trouble for you," she finished in a whisper, seeing as how close they were standing now.

"Being very honest?"

Imogen nodded.

"Being very honest, I'd have to say that when it comes to you, me and trouble, I'm afraid I'm already well entangled in it with no hope of rescue," he said, squeezing her hands in his.

Imogen's concerned expression softened into a small smile. "What now, then?"

Bellasis considered the question. He was embarking on a career in government that he hoped would take him abroad. The recent unrest in the continent had also pushed him to consider the military because he sensed military entanglement was inevitable. In no version of the future that he'd plotted out for himself as recently as a week ago was marriage in the cards for another ten years.

He hadn't planned on love this young.

He hadn't wanted it.

But now he couldn't avoid it.

Because here love was staring him in the face.

"Let's have another dance, and see where that takes us," he said.

Bellasis let go Imogen's hands and offered his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and said, "All right, but you're no picnic for me either."

Bellasis let out a hearty laugh. _No hope of rescue_ , he thought. _No desire for it either._

* * *

Later, Sybil was watching her two friends dancing with a bright smile on her face when she felt her mother approaching her.

"They make a lovely couple don't you think," Sybil said. 

"They do," Cora said with a sigh. "Hard to argue against the match from either one's perspective." Looking over at Sybil with a sly, smile. "Did you push them together just to spite me?"

Cora's tone was jocular, but Sybil knew her mother was asking a genuine question. Trying to mimic Cora's teasing tone, Sybil replied, "No. At least, not any more than you intended to spite me by pushing him on me."

Cora watched Sybil for a moment as Sybil looked around the room at all the people gathered presumably on her behalf. She'd been on her best behavior all night, but Cora could see Sybil's heart was not entirely in it. "You have similar interests," Cora said. "Was it really such a reach?"

"No," Sybil said. "No, it wasn't, but I don't think it would have ever been meant to be. I do like him very much and consider him a friend. But I'm not inclined to feel anything more than that, and I believe I would say that even if it weren't for—"

Sybil caught herself before she said more, but her mother didn't have to hear more—or know of any engagement—to know who exactly Sybil was thinking of. "Even if it weren't for Tom Branson," Cora filled in.

Sybil looked away, trying to consider carefully what she could say to her mother in this moment.

"Do you really think him so bad a choice for someone in my position? Is he so bad a person in your eyes?"

"Now, darling, you know how much I care for Tom. This is not about him."

Sybil closed her eyes trying not to feel riled up by this whole exchange. "Isn't it?"

"No," Cora said, setting her hand on Sybil's arm. "This is about you. I want you to see all that could be available to you if you let it."

"And if I see it and decide that I don't want it, will you let me make my own path and support me when I do?"

Cora smiled in that way that mothers of willful daughters always do, seeing the sincerity—desperation, even—of the request in Sybil's liquid eyes. "I will always love you, my darling, and I will always support you, but with all of that comes worry. I just want you to have a good life."

"But you won't let me be the judge of what is a good life."

"You want to challenge yourself and that is admirable, but hardship for its own sake won't be enough to make you happy."

"Neither will a large drawing room," Sybil answered.

Cora smiled again. "Fair enough."

Mother and daughter stood together, without further discussion, for several minutes, allowing themselves to enjoy the music and the din of happy conversation. It was late, though not so by the standard of summer evenings spent among London's posh set. Cora's eyes felt dry suddenly, so she closed them. As soon as she did, however, she realized this was a mistake and had Sybil's arm had not been there for her to grab, she might have fallen to the floor.

"Mama!" Sybil exclaimed, taking her by the shoulders and moving her to a nearby chair. "Are you feeling all right? Shall I go fetch O'Brien?"

Once sitting, Cora took several deep breaths. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure?" Sybil asked, still alarmed. "Now that I'm looking at you, you seem a bit pale."

"I didn't eat much today to be very honest, and I suppose balls on consecutive nights is not as easy as it was once," she said with a chuckle. After another breath, she said, "I'm fine, but go tell your father I've gone upstairs. I'm sure after a good night's sleep I'll be much better in the morning. You don't mind, do you, dear? This is your night after all."

Sybil smiled. "Please rest, mama. I've been a lovely night already."

"Thank you, darling."

After Sybil had gone in search of her father, Cora made her way upstairs and rang for her maid. O'Brien had not expected to be called yet, and wondered about it. She'd been suspecting for weeks that Cora had it in her mind to replace her. Another woman would have asked, nay _pleaded_ , with her charge to be given a chance to prove her worth, but Sarah O'Brien was no such person. She was far too proud. Whatever fault Cora had found in O'Brien was Cora's own so far as the maid was concern.

With little fanfare, she helped Cora disrobe and got her in bed. Then, once she'd collected all the dirty laundry, O'Brien made her way downstairs again.

Cora didn't look ill, but O'Brien could sense that something was not quite normal about her. She'd likely lay in bed all the next day for no other reason than because she had the luxury to do so. The thought irritated O'Brien, who suffered intense pain in her abdomen with her monthly bleeding every month, but could do nothing but bear it, all for the sake of this ungrateful woman.

_Monthly bleeding._

O'Brien stopped mid step on the stairs to the servants hall.

_June was half done._

_May had passed._

_April had passed._

"Is there a problem Miss O'Brien?"

O'Brien looked down and saw Carson at the bottom of the stairs.

She wanted to laugh out loud.

 _She has no idea_ , O'Brien thought, her features settling into their well-worn smirk. She walked down the rest of the way and as she passed the butler, she said, "It depends on what one means by the word _problem_."

"What in heaven's name do you mean?" he asked her retreating back for she had not stopped walking.

"Never mind me, Mr. Carson," she said, turning back to him.

Carson's brow furrowed, but he turned to go the other direction. "I need to get back up. I just wanted to make sure her ladyship was taken care of."

"She is," O'Brien replied. _She certainly is._


	51. As Good as Engaged

_This entire update consists of Matthew's conversations on his way out of the house._ _To a certain extent, I hate chapters in which only a few hours' worth of action happens, but there is so much that's about to happen in this period of the Crawleys' lives and I want to establish everyone's feelings and mind sets on the eve of the war, which is going to change the course of things considerably. I_ _n the next chapter, everyone will be back at Downton, and the next few chapters are going to be full of action and drama. This is, in effect, the calm before the storm._

* * *

_I'm sure after a good night's sleep I'll be better in the morning._

That's what Cora had told Sybil before leaving the ball and walking upstairs to her room. And while it was true that after she changed into her nightgown with O'Brien's help, she fell asleep quickly and easily, Cora remained asleep only for a couple of hours. She woke when Robert came into bed, but she couldn't find sound sleep again after that. Too full was her mind, upon seeing him, of worry over how she could possibly tell him about Tom and Sybil.

Even if Cora herself had made peace with her youngest daughter and her apparent decision to marry Tom Branson, Cora knew that Robert would not be so easily moved to accept what no person in their social circle would see as anything but a marriage _beneath_ what was expected of Sybil. It seemed clear that Sybil knew this too, given that despite how earnestly she'd spoken about Tom to her mother, she had yet to given any sort of indication to her _father_ regarding her feelings. Cora considered Tom the brightest person she knew and imagined that he too understood what was at stake and that Robert would have to be approached with care, at the exact right time. Cora had no idea how or when that could be done.

Edith's happy news earlier in the day would have been a bright spot if Cora had not suddenly begun to think, now that the engagement was official, that Anthony's age might leave Edith to live too many of her best years as a widow. Not to mention the question of Mrs. Chetwood, who was not so discreet as she perhaps believed herself to be about how she felt about the match. Cora wondered whether her meek middle child could handle an in-law so clearly used to getting her way where her brother was concerned.

And then there was Mary, the belle of the ball for so long— _too long_. It was with nothing short of anguish that Cora thought about the possibility that her oldest daughter would have to watch her younger sisters marry first. Mary, along with her stubbornness, was not without fault, having pushed away so many who would have been won over so easily. Cora could admit this much, but even so she could not help but blame herself.

By the time morning came around and Cora felt Robert stir beside her, moving to sit up, Cora having done nothing but lay in bed all night still somehow felt exhausted and ill. So fitful was her slumber that the malaise that she had felt the evening previous had not only not gone away, it had gotten worse. Despite that fact, Cora continued not to entertain any concern about her health. She dismissed feeling out of sorts as merely a physical manifestation of her ever present worries about her daughters, which seemed to compound in her mind as the night drew on into the early morning.

Eager not to worry Robert, she played down her physical discomfort when he asked her whether she was feeling better as he got out of bed to dress for breakfast. Cora did notice, however, O'Brien's pointed look when the maid took the tray from the bed, the breakfast served atop it barely touched.

"Would her ladyship prefer something else for breakfast?" O'Brien asked.

Cora sighed. "Just some fresh tea, I think, O'Brien. I know I'm not quite myself this morning, but a day's rest should do the trick . . . honestly, if these girls of mine would just settle down I dare say I'd be the fittest fiddle in all of England."

O'Brien pursed her lips and nodded. She'd considered, earlier that morning, as she waited in the kitchen for breakfast to be ready, saying something to Cora that might open her eyes as to what was really the matter. Watching her again now, however, that impulse dissipated. A part of O'Brien really wanted to see just how long it would take—just how preoccupied Cora could be with the trivialities that constituted her existence—before the truth became glaringly obvious. So without another word, O'Brien exited the room. Once out in the hall, after closing the door behind her, she saw Matthew coming in her direction. She cast her eyes down in an effort to avoid his and walk past him quickly, so she was caught off guard when he stopped in front of her.

"Pardon me, O'Brien, but I'd like to have a word with Lady Grantham. His lordship said she was staying in bed this morning, but I'm heading back to Downton and I'd like to say my goodbyes. Would you mind terribly going in to ask if I may come in?"

Without a word, O'Brien went back to the bedroom door. She moved to hold the breakfast tray on one hand so she could knock. She thought she was about to drop it, but instead, she turned to see Matthew taking it from her, acting on his unfailing instinct to be helpful. He let go immediately and took a step back for good measure upon seeing the horrified look on O'Brien's face, who would have unleashed no harsher a glare upon someone trying to take the crown jewels. After rolling her eyes and steadying the tray once again on her left hand, she raised her right to knock, doing so three times and loudly, making such a show of it that Matthew had to curl his lips inward to stop himself from smiling.

Matthew didn't hear Cora respond on the other side, but O'Brien opened the door and motioned for him to go in, closing the door again behind him.

"Matthew," Cora said, smiling brightly on seeing him and pushing herself to sit up straighter. "How nice to see you."

"I'm sorry to barge in like this," he said.

"Oh, not at all, please have a seat," Cora replied, motioning to a chair in the corner of the room.

Matthew hadn't intended on staying all that long, but it seemed rude not to comply, so he picked up the chair and brought it over next to the bed. "Robert said you weren't feeling well," he said, once he'd settled in. "I don't mean to disturb you, if you need rest. I just wanted to say my goodbyes as I'll be heading back to Downton today. Mother will be here for a few more days yet, but I'm afraid I cannot stay so long."

"Well, I'm sure you have duties calling you back, and I know how conscientious you are, but you would certainly be welcome to stay with us for the rest of the month if you wanted to."

Matthew smiled. "I appreciate that, but I'm afraid with my responsibilities at the partnership, my time is not entirely my own."

"I hope you enjoyed yourself last night, at least. It meant a lot to Robert and me that you and Isobel could be here."

"We were happy to be a part of it. I think Sybil enjoyed herself quite well given that—" Matthew stopped short, realizing what he was about to voice aloud and chastising himself for being so careless.

Cora noticed and, sitting up, reached over to grab his hand to put him at ease, glad that he'd sat himself close enough for her to do so. "It's all right, Matthew. It makes me happy that you want to protect them, but you needn't do so from me."

Matthew blinked a few times, surprised at how easily Cora recognized what he'd been referring to. Cora let go of his hand and moved to sit back in her bed again but the movement, however slight, gave her momentary vertigo and she reached for Matthew again to try to get her bearings.

With concern in his voice, he asked, "Are you all right? Should I call for a doctor?"

Cora held Matthew's hand for a long moment and took several deep breaths before answering. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

She thought for a moment that she might get sick, but after several more deep breaths and finally leaning back and relaxing into her pillow, the feeling passed.

"Is it a cold, perhaps?" Matthew asked.

Cora laughed lightly. "To be perfectly honest, Matthew, if I didn't know any better I would think I was with child."

Matthew's eyes widened immediately. The implications for him—for the entire family—would be considerable, to say the least, if that were really the case. Cora saw how taken aback he was and laughed again. "Please don't worry about that. That opportunity has long since passed."

Matthew let go her hand and sat back in the chair once again. " You're not so advanced in age, Cousin Cora."

"That's flattery on your part, and I'll accept it, but . . . the truth is that we—Robert and I—we tried for many years to have another child after Sybil was born and it was not to be. If such a possibility still existed it surely would have happened by now."

Matthew was moved by Cora's frankness. "Do you regret not having a son? I don't mean to imply you don't love your daughters because I know you do. I just mean—"

"I understand," she said with a smile. "I've had a good life and I do love my family, as you say, but I'd be lying if I said that it doesn't hurt me, not having given something to Robert that he wanted so much. Simpler laws would render the inheritance questions a moot point, but it isn't just about that."

"No?"

Cora shook her head and sighed. "I think Robert would have wanted a son regardless." Cora paused and looked Matthew in the eye and said, "I'm glad he has that in you."

Matthew looked down, touched by the sentiment.

"I know how grateful he is that you came to us, and Tom, too, and that you're both a part of our family. You'll never hear _him_ say it aloud, I'm afraid. That doesn't make it less true, even the part about Tom."

Matthew chuckled.

"Regret is an odd thing. I suppose I'll always feel a measure of it, but our not having a son is very reason you're here and no part of me will ever regret that."

"Thank you, Cousin Cora."

"Thank _you_."

Matthew rubbed the top of his legs with his hands nervously. "I've taken up enough of your time, I think, so I'll leave you to rest."

Cora smiled at Matthew as he stood.

A small part of Matthew considered telling Cora about what he'd said to Mary the previous day, let her know that the wish she held on to for her daughter to follow her into the title of Countess of Grantham, could still come to be. He'd wondered all evening whether Mary herself would do it. Obviously, if she intended to, she had not done it yet. But he wouldn't gang up on Mary in that way, for surely Cora—and Robert and Violet, once Cora told them—would spend all her energy in convincing Mary to accept Matthew's offer if Cora knew it was there for the taking. He didn't know that Mary loved him and that she might have forgiven him eventually, had he done it, but he knew Mary. And he knew she would want to enter the union of her own accord and under her own counsel, and truth be told, that's how he wanted it as well. So having done what he came in to do, Matthew said his goodbyes, and when Cora said that she couldn't wait to go back to Downton herself, she meant it.

Matthew looked back at Cora to wave one more time as he opened the door, which is why he didn't see Mary standing on the other side, obviously about to come in, and found himself nose-to-nose with her upon turning to leave.

They both stepped back immediately, laughing nervously. If Cora had had her wits about her, she might have noticed that something was off between them.

After Matthew's proposal and their kiss in the park, both Matthew and Mary sought to appear as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had gone on between them. Given how self-possessed both were, they got through the rest of the day and the ball without anyone suspecting the significant turn their relationship had taken. In that one run-in at Cora's door, however, in the surprise of seeing each other and standing so close for little more than a second, the air between them changed momentarily and both felt it, like a painless electric charge.

* * *

_Neither Mary nor Matthew remembered pulling away. One moment, they were locked in a passionate embrace, and the next, they were only close enough to stare into each other's eyes, each willing to reveal as much as the other was willing to see, but neither sure of what he or she was looking for. The force that had pulled them into each other had suddenly slackened its grip and left them floating, moor-less._

_Mary wanted to speak, to fill the silence with something—anything—but she felt unsteady in the torrent of emotions running through her. Indeed, she had never felt so many things at the same time. She felt in equal measure as if she could slap Matthew across the face_ and _pull him into her again for another kiss. She wanted to scream, "How dare you!" and "What took you so long?" in the same breath._

_Recognizing only the confusion and not the emotions in her eyes, Matthew cleared his throat and stepped back and to the side, so that they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder as if to begin their walk in the park once again._

_"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking down and not meeting her eyes._

_The words and the sentiment surprised Mary. "Sorry? Why? Are you sorry that we—"_

_"No. That was . . . for me—I . . ." he sighed at his own inability to form words._

_Mary found his discombobulation comforting and finally allowed her lips to fall into a genuine smile. "Don't be sorry because I'm not."_

_Matthew met her eyes again and smiled back relieved._

_"That was lovely," she said quietly._

_Another man might have found reason not to be pleased with what was surely understatement. But it was exactly what Matthew had wanted and needed to hear from her. He was so affected by her subtlety, in fact, that he had to look away for a moment. Mary continued to watch him and saw the side of his cheek and his ear redden slightly. She was so full of love for him that in that moment she'd been hard pressed to remember a time in which she didn't love him. She felt tears of joy pooling in her eyes, but she blinked them away before he turned back toward her._

_"You've given me a lot to think about," she said._

_"That doesn't sound like a yes or a no," he replied, furrowing his brow in a comical way and making her laugh._

_"It's not meant to be a yes or a no. I'd like some time to consider it, if you don't mind."_

_"Of course. Take all the time you need."_

_With that Matthew offered his arm, and Mary took it and the two walked along Hyde Park as if it were just any other day._

_They said little of substance for the rest of the day, but neither particularly minded. There wasn't much more for them to say. It was an odd way for two people who had previously been so otherwise ill-at-ease in each other's presence to arrive at the state of shared contented silence, but they liked being there together._

* * *

 

"Pardon me," Matthew said quietly. "Were you coming in?" He stepped back so Mary could come into the room.

She did so and looked back and forth between between Matthew and her mother.

"I was just saying goodbye to your mother. I'll be leaving on the late morning train back to Downtown."

"Safe journey, then," Mary said, wanting to say more, even if she still wasn't quite sure what she would or could say.

Matthew smiled, and with another wave to Cora, he left the room, leaving mother and daughter alone.

"I'm so glad he was able to come this week," Cora said. "I wish it had been longer. I shall blame your father for it."

"Not Tom?" Mary asked surprised. "His banishment is the reason Matthew chose to stay at Downton."

"Do _you_ blame Tom?"

"I suppose I do, to an extent, but if we're being clear-eyed about what led to both Tom and Matthew's absence here this month, Sybil should be acknowledged as the guiltiest party. That situation with the count was all _her_ doing."

"Goodness, don't remind me. That's precisely why I blame your father. He should have kept his temper in check, even if Sybil is too good at stoking it, with or without Tom's help."

Mary took a moment to look down at her hands, and Cora wondered if something was weighing on her.

"Darling, will you be honest with me about something?" Cora asked.

Mary looked up again. "About what?"

"Do you like Tom?"

Mary blinked several times, not sure what to make of the question. Had Sybil revealed her feelings once and for all? Mary thought carefully before she spoke, wanting to be honest as well as protective of Sybil, knowing her own opinion on the young man her sister was in love with would have an affect on her parents' view of him. "I do like him . . . well, I should admit that I would likely not ever be friends with someone like him if . . . you know, if things were different. And that's owing to his being such a know-it-all, not his class, lest I be misunderstood." Mary paused, weighing her words carefully before adding, "He's clever and he's obviously made a good life for himself, which are traits to be admired. And I believe he'd stand by Matthew through just about anything, which I appreciate. He'd likely do as much for all of us, as well."

"I think so too," Cora replied.

"What was the reason for the question, mama?"

"Nothing," Cora said. "I just . . . I've missed him."

Mary could see there was more to it but didn't press the point.

"It's not something I considered until just now," Cora continued. "But it occurred to me that I'm sorry Tom didn't get to be here with us at all when I thought how sorry I was that Matthew couldn't stay longer."

"Matthew _wouldn't_ stay longer, you mean. It was his choice after all. Their loyalty to each other goes both ways."

"Do you like that about Matthew?"

The way Cora's voice rose as she said Matthew's name did not escape Mary's notice.

"Are we talking about something else now?" Mary asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

Cora smiled. "Well, I did want to know what you think of Tom, but since you ask I would also like to know whether you like Matthew, after all the time they've been with us now."

Mary sighed. "Mama, you know I do."

"When it comes to how you feel, Mary, I'm afraid I don't know anything."

Mary rolled her eyes.

"Darling, I think it's a good thing that you guard your heart, but I do wonder sometimes if you have done the job too well."

"Well, since _you_ ask . . ." Mary took a deep breath, knowing once she uttered these words there was no taking them back. She looked straight at her mother and said them: "Matthew asked me to marry him yesterday."

Cora chuckled. "Heavens! What was in the drinks last night!?"

"I'm serious! He proposed to me."

Cora's eyes widened in disbelief and a bright grin slowly took over her face. "Oh, my dear," she said slowly, not wanting to spook Mary with her excitement. "Have you given him an answer?"

"Only that I'd think about it."

"Well, that's an advance on what it would have been a year ago. Do you want to marry him?"

That Mary had not turned him down on the spot gave Cora more hope regarding Mary's prospects than she'd allowed herself to have in quite some time.

Mary looked down at her hands. "I know you want me to marry him."

"What we want doesn't matter."

Mary looked up to throw her mother a cutting glare.

"At least, it's not all that matters," Cora said, conceding the point.

Mary looked away again, not having anything else to say. She wasn't sure, even now that she had done it, that telling her mother was a good idea. Last night, for all sorts of reasons, she'd been determined not to. But after deliberating all morning, she settled on doing so, if only because she wanted the opinion of someone who understood marriage as a duty and necessity the same way she did. Sybil had only seen the romance in Matthew's offer, and Edith could hardly be counted on for an unbiased view of the situation. Anna would likely say, in her modest, demure way that Mary deserved to follow her heart—never mind how fickle and unreliable Mary believed her own heart to be.

Mary wasn't sure what she wanted to hear from her mother, but maybe something in her reaction would draw out whatever it was inside Mary that was keeping her from making a definitive decision one way or the other.

Watching Mary now, Cora wondered what she had missed in recent weeks that made the usually prideful and confident Mary now seem so unsure of herself.

"Do you love Matthew?" Cora asked.

"Yes," Mary answered, surprising herself with how easily the word came out and how unable to contain herself she was all of a sudden. "I . . . I think I do. I think I may have loved him for much longer than I knew."

Cora held her breath as she saw tears pool in Mary's eyes.

After all her worrying, could it really be so easy? Even Robert's potential objection to Tom didn't seem so great an obstacle if a marriage between Matthew and Mary could be presented to him in the same breath.

"Oh, my darling," she said, taking Mary's hand. "Let's not pretend this isn't the answer to every one of our prayers."

Mary rolled her eyes and stood, clearly annoyed at her mother's remark.

"Mary!" Cora said. "Are you honestly considering turning him down when marrying him would give you Downton, the estate, all the things you wanted your grandmother and I to fight for?"

Mary turned back to her mother, suddenly. "I don't want those things at Matthew's expense!"

"Even if he's the one making the offer?"

" _Especially_ , if he's the one making the offer!"

Cora sighed, looking away.

"Yes, I wish Downton were mine, and I wish that the entail could have been broken in my favor, but I wasn't praying for Matthew to be forced into a loveless marriage just so I could have my way."

"But darling, it wouldn't be loveless—you just said so yourself!"

"Not for me perhaps, but for him."

Cora smiled. "You know that's precisely how your father and I started out, and you know our marriage isn't loveless now. I dare say it wasn't loveless for very long at all. You and Matthew could barely look at each other when he first arrived at Downtown. Think of how far you've come! What makes you think Matthew would be incapable of loving you in the future—or that he's not fond of you now? Knowing him as we do, do you really think he would make the offer if he didn't care for you at least a little?"

"Plenty of men have been known to seek a woman's hand for reasons that have nothing to do with her and even less to do with love."

"You don't think Matthew is such a man, do you?"

"No, he isn't. But I know him better than you do, and . . ."

"And what, darling?"

"He feels responsible for my situation. It's something to admire in him, but benign as his intent may be, is it really fair to him?" Mary sighed. "You loved papa, so you were willing to give him everything you had. I love Matthew, but I have _nothing_ to give him. All I'm doing is taking what's his."

"And you won't change your mind about that? Even if everything that's his should be yours?"

"Not everything. You forget it was his own money that saved Downton from ruin, and it's not as if any of the estate would be mine if I'd had a brother. Perhaps if that were the case the choice would be easy."

"If that were the case, he'd just be a lawyer from Manchester. Are you telling me now that that's what you want?" Cora said not bothering to mask the skepticism in her voice.

"We get on so well," Mary said, feeling a pang in her heart as she spoke the words, realizing how true they were even if she hadn't realized it until just now. Aside from Sybil, Matthew was her closest, dearest _friend_. "And he's terribly clever," she added. "He might have ended up Lord Chancellor."

Cora smiled sadly, not wanting to reply, feeling as if Mary would offer a counterpoint for whatever argument Cora put forward in support of an engagement.

"My point is, mama, your situation with papa and mine with Matthew are not the same. In your case, you held all the cards. I have nothing. Can't you see how very different that makes things?"

Cora tried another tack. "You didn't make this objection with Patrick."

Mary turned away again, walking toward the window.

Cora watched Mary a moment. "You didn't care for Patrick so much, so you didn't worry whether he would love you as you wanted him to and you didn't care as to whether he could be happy with you, is that it?"

Mary didn't answer, but Cora knew she was right.

"Did you tell Matthew when you'd give him your answer?"

Mary shook her head.

"Good," Cora said. "Just give yourself time to really consider what he's offering. Don't talk yourself out of something that could make you so happy. Please, darling."

Mary finally looked back at her mother and nodded slightly. "I'll try, but on one condition."

"Name it."

"Don't tell papa about this. Or granny. At least not until I'm ready to make a decision."

"But Mary—"

"Please! It'll be hard enough trying to keep a clear head with you breathing down my neck. I don't need all three of you."

Cora sighed and leaned back in her bed. "Fine."

Closing her eyes momentarily, Cora thought, _Mary and Matthew. Edith and Anthony. Sybil and Tom._

Her three daughters were as good as engaged, and somehow no closer to being settled than before.

* * *

After closing the door to Cora's room, Matthew took a deep breath to steady himself. As he started walking down the hall, he laughed. It wasn't as if this was the first he'd seen of Mary since he'd spoken aloud what he'd been thinking and feeling for weeks.

_We should get married._

Those had been his exact words. It wasn't quite the romantic proposal that he thought Mary deserved. But then he didn't think he was the groom she deserved either, so what had come out of his mouth, however artless, seemed somehow fitting. Then, they'd kissed. He sighed and scratched the back of his head now just thinking about it. And he wondered again how had he managed to function properly after that. Because somehow he had done. They both had, having gone about their day as if all was normal. So why should stumbling into each other discombobulate Matthew as it just had?

Perhaps it was because it was early or because talking to Cora about what she'd hoped but failed to give her husband had affected him emotionally or perhaps merely because he was human and even he couldn't be expected to hold everything in all the time. Matthew was grateful that he would be leaving Grantham House soon, grateful not to have to pretend he didn't feel anything for Mary. Then again, leaving her behind with the question of their future still hanging unresolved between them would likely be just as torturous as having to remain stoic in her presence.

"How did you find Cora?"

Robert's voice startled Matthew. Having lost himself in his musings over Mary, Matthew had failed to notice that he'd made it to the first floor. Matthew stood at the bottom of the stairs, with Robert standing in front of him, apparently on the way up.

Robert spoke again, Matthew not having answered the first time. "Was she feeling better?"

"I'm not sure," Matthew replied. "Whatever it is can't be too serious. She didn't seem particularly ill, at least to me."

"I was just going to check on her," Robert said.

"Mary arrived at her room, just as I was leaving. She's with her now."

"Is she? Well, I'll not interrupt in that case. Are you leaving?"

Matthew shook his head. "I don't need to quite yet."

"Would you like to join me in the parlor, then?"

"Of course."

When the two men sat down, Robert asked. "Did you enjoy yourself last night?"

"I did, thank you. And you? I imagine it was all rather bittersweet, with Sybil being the last of your daughters."

"It was, I suppose," Robert said wistfully. "Though it was more of a relief than anything else to have it all done with and having gotten through in one piece. With Sybil you never how things are going to turn out—for good or ill." Robert chuckled. "According to Cora, now comes the hard part . . . getting them all married off."

Matthew looked down, hoping Robert wasn't looking for any sort of response. Matthew certainly couldn't say anything about what role he hoped the play in the answer to that question.

"We want to see you well settled someday too. We might have hoped in our own interests that you and Mary could have made a go of it, but you deserve to be the guardian of your own happiness. As a guardian of Downton, you have already more than proved your worth."

Matthew met Robert's eyes again. In those eyes, Matthew could see that, despite the concerns he or Cora might have about the futures of their daughters, on this particular morning, Robert was happy, maybe as happy as Matthew had ever seen him. And in that happiness, Robert saw fit to release Matthew from whatever familial duty Matthew felt compelled to fulfill, never mind that it was a duty Matthew had decided he was more than willing to take on. Knowing that he couldn't tell Robert about it yet, Matthew decided he'd steer the conversation in a different direction and take advantage of this moment to try to put Robert at ease about the one union in the family Matthew was sure would eventually come to pass.

"I appreciate those words coming from you," Matthew said.

Robert smiled in response.

Matthew took a deep breath before he continued. "You know, of course, that I couldn't have done any of it without Tom."

Robert's smile faded slightly, but he did not look away or try to speak over Matthew to change the subject. Matthew took this as a good sign.

"I won't pretend that I don't know why you asked him not to come here. I'd never tell you how to be a father to Sybil, but you should know that where Tom is concerned, he is as close to me as any family save for my mother. If . . . " Matthew trailed off, for a moment looking for the words to say what he needed to say—and for Robert to really hear him—without giving yet another secret away before its keepers were ready. "If, in the course of things, you feel it necessary to continue to exclude him, it would behoove me to tell you that you'd be doing so to Downton's detriment and it would force me to step away as well—at least, I would feel as if I were doing a disservice to my father's memory if I didn't stand up for him. I know how you feel about his politics, but his character is unassailable. You must know that, and surely, you can be persuaded to be of the belief that that is all that matters."

Matthew stopped there, not having meant to go on as he had or to seem as if he were lecturing Robert, whose face remained unreadable.

"I hope I haven't offended you," he said more quietly.

"You haven't," Robert said. "Your loyalty and the deference you pay your father are honorable attributes."

Robert's sentiment echoed Mary's from the day before, but for whatever reason the memory of her words— _your high opinion of Tom speaks well of you_ —in combination with a seeming desire in Robert to avoid addressing directly what Matthew thought of Tom all served to annoy Matthew in that moment.

"I'm trying to lift Tom up in your eyes, Robert, not myself."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

The challenge in Matthew's voice surprised them both, but this time Matthew didn't apologize.

"Do you think I hate him?" Robert asked.

Matthew sighed. "I know you don't."

"Men in our position expect that things should be done a certain way. It's a rare thing to be in such close company with someone who upsets that equilibrium. It's bad enough having to deal with Sybil on her own. The night of the count, I was angry because I had been lied to. I don't feel my anger was unjustified but . . . Tom made for an easy target, I suppose. I couldn't very well banish Sybil from her own season."

Robert chuckled, and Matthew felt some relief, hoping that perhaps already that difficult night was on its way to becoming the kind of memory they would all laugh about in years to come.

"When I spoke of loyalty, just now, I was speaking of both of you, Matthew. I know that if the situation were reversed Tom would speak just as highly of you. Reginald . . . he raised you both well. And you were all lucky to have each other."

In the statement, in the timber of Robert's voice when he said it, Matthew heard not just regret over having not been father to a son, but also over not have been or had a brother. Matthew vowed not to allow the current distance between Robert and Tom to grow any wider. And now he hoped more than ever that the looming announcement Tom and Sybil were preparing would not make it unbridgeable. Robert would never articulate it, but he needed them both.

After a moment reflecting on what he'd just said, Robert added, "Surely, though, I can admit that even when there is no soreness between me and Tom, he and I will never agree on anything."

Matthew laughed heartily. "Well, from what Tom has told me, I think you and he would probably agree about how stubborn Sybil is."

Robert laughed in response, but as he did so his brow furrowed slightly—too slightly for Matthew to notice—in a bit of confusion.

_How well does Tom know Sybil?_

* * *

Sybil had been allowed to take her breakfast in bed the following morning, a rare treat that she took advantage of only so she could use the time to write a letter to Tom that she intended to give to Matthew to deliver, knowing that he would be meeting Tom back at the train station so they could make the journey back to Downton together.

_My Dearest Tom,_

_As I write this letter I can still scarcely believe that I saw you only yesterday. Already I feel as if we have been too long apart for me to bear. I cannot wait until we are married and we are the owners of our own the time and can dictate ourselves how little or how much we spend together. Oddly enough, the wait feels all the more difficult now that I know that marriage is our future and not just an unspoken dream. It does feel like in dream, though, given how happy it has made me._

_Perhaps it was the luxury of being the youngest, but I never concerned myself with marriage the way Mary and Edith did. I can honestly say, however, that I do see now with you what all the fuss is about. All that's left to hope is that my family accept the news happily. It could be that the joy I feel is clouding my better judgment, but I do think, darling, that we have reason to hope. Last night, I spoke with mama about you rather frankly. It was the second such time as I made my feelings for you quite plain since we've been in London. She has not spoken to papa about it, so far as I can tell. I did not reveal our engagement, but I do believe she understands that my mind will not be changed and will support us in the end. Sir Anthony has officially proposed to Edith—isn't that wonderful? Edith told Mary and me last night, and the happiness that news will bring will surely be of help to us as well._

_I wish you could be here with us now, but perhaps the next few weeks will oblige us and pass by quickly. With Matthew leaving today and Isobel doing so at the end of the week it already feels as if we all have one foot home. And anyway, the luncheon I'm hosting with Imogen to raise money for students at the Royal Free is still to come and sure to take so much of my attention that July and our return to Downton will be here before we know it. I'm so lucky to have Imogen here. I don't know what I would have done at all these events I am meant to go to without her. I have my studies to keep me busy as well, although I must admit that I have not been paying my books as much mind as I should be—another reason I am eager to return home and normalcy._

_But most of all, my darling Tom, I just want to be with you again. I shall sign off now, for the sooner I do, the sooner this letter will be in your hands and the sooner I will be as well._

_Yours always, SPC_

Sybil giggled to herself as she wrote that last line. She long since passed the point at which imagining Tom's hands on her body in places where he had not yet touched her made her blush just to think about. But allowing herself to indulge in fantasy and sharing as much with him in a letter were two different things.

Tom had always been a gentleman with her. He'd never tried to hide his experience from her, nor suggest that her curiosity or desire was anything to be ashamed of. Still, she'd kept the extent to which she'd begun exploring her own body and how she'd think of him when doing so—usually, bare-chested and drenched in water, his hair rumpled and falling over his eyes—mostly to herself. This was not out of embarrassment so much as an effort to test her own self-control . . . which sometimes led her to wonder why virtue was considered by so many to be such so essential a characteristic in a "good" woman. The question most often arose in the moments when Tom looked at her a certain way and she though the heat she felt inside would consume her as a result.

Now that they were engaged, though, fantasy would soon become reality, and however subtle or innocuous the suggestion in her letter, Sybil felt ready to step into this new territory and let Tom to know she was ready.

After putting her letter into an envelope and sealing it, Sybil dressed herself and headed downstairs. She saw Matthew coming out of the parlor and heading toward the stairs. He smiled as he approached.

"Good morning," he said. "Hope you're doing well this morning."

"I am, thank you," Sybil replied.

"I'm leaving for the train station and back to Downton shortly, so I'm glad I saw you to say my goodbyes."

"Actually, on that note . . ." Sybil looked around and smiled sheepishly when she turned back to Matthew, having confirmed they were alone. She pulled the letter out of her skirt pocket. "Do you mind delivering this for me?"

Matthew took the envelope and smiled when he saw Tom's name on it. "Of course," he said.

Matthew was too discreet to acknowledge what he might know about her relationship with Tom, but between her family and his, Matthew was obviously the one who knew the most. The thought comforted Sybil. She knew that save for his mother and perhaps now Sybil herself, Tom considered Matthew the most important person in his life. It made Sybil happy and proud that he would be her brother soon enough, and even more so that he might be her brother two times over, if Mary accepted him as her husband.

"I'm so grateful that you came," Sybil said. "I know the summer didn't begin the way it was meant to but . . . I'm glad you were here last night."

"I'm very glad I was here too. It was an honor." He looked down at the envelope in his hands again and added, "I hope the whole of yesterday was good."

Sybil smiled. "It was."

—

"I thought you were going to miss it!" Tom said as Matthew came into the compartment only minutes before the train pulled away from the station.

Matthew sat down across from Tom with a sigh, dropping the newspaper he'd been carrying next to him. "I did too."

"What happened?"

"Nothing particularly," Matthew replied. "Just a lot of goodbyes. Mother sends her best. She'll be home at the end of the week."

"I'm still surprised she chose to come and stay and long as she has. I'm sure Dr. Clarkson is loving the break from her eager oversight."

Matthew chuckled. "She's sure to overcompensate when she returns, so he should enjoy it while it lasts. I think she was curious, more than anything else, and wanted to be there for Sybil. She's staying until the day after Sybil's charity luncheon, so she'll be able to give you all the details."

Tom smiled, but didn't say anything, instead turning to the passing scenery out his window.

Matthew watched him for a moment. "Have you told her?"

"Told who what?" Tom asked, turning back to Matthew.

"Mother, that you plan on marrying cousin Sybil."

Tom shook his head.

"Have you told your mother?"

Tom laughed. "I don't need to tell her. She likely knew before I did."

"What does she think?"

"She wants me to be happy, but she also wants me to be careful."

"What do you think mother will say?"

Tom thought for a moment. "I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine."

"Well, I can't imagine that she'll have any sort of objection—or that she'd not speak up for you if Robert and Cora do."

"Neither can I," Tom replied, "but where love is concerned I'm afraid taking anything for granted is foolish—even the support of Aunt Isobel."

Matthew considered Tom's words and wondered what his mother would say of his own situation and of having Lady Mary Crawley as a daughter-in-law. It occurred to him that he was no more sure what she would say about it than Tom was. Not wanting to head down a train of thought that had him considering the possibilities prematurely, he picked up the newspaper again and took out Sybil's letter from his jacket pocket and handed it to Tom as he stood.

"Where are you going?" Tom asked, confused.

Matthew handed him the envelope and held up the paper, signaling his intent to read it. "I'll be in the dining car. That's from Sybil."

Tom smiled, and Matthew thought he saw a tiny hint of a blush in Tom's cheeks as he took the envelope. Tom waited until Matthew was gone before he began reading. He did so several times before sitting back and staring out the window again, and letting her words—practically committed to memory already—bounce around in his mind.

_I just want to be with you again. I shall sign off now, for the sooner I do, the sooner this letter will be in your hands and the sooner I will be as well._

"Oh, my darling," he said out loud. "Soon will never be soon enough."


	52. Everything Becomes Real

 

**July 1914**

"I rather wish we were all staying."

Anna smiled at Bates' words.

He was shining a pair of Robert's shoes while Anna folded laundry in the boot room of Grantham House, which would be closed the following day after a long, eventful season. In a few hours, most of the family would be heading for the train station en route back to Downtown Abbey—all of them but Mary, who'd opted to stay behind for another week or so, with her aunt.

Bates and Anna were completing the last of their tasks before suitcases were to be packed in the motor on the way to the train, or in Mary's case, in the car Rosamund would be sending over.

"Whereas I rather wish I could go back with the rest of you," Anna replied.

"It speaks well of your service to Lady Mary that she'd ask for you to stay behind with her," Bates said.

"I suppose," she said with a sigh, turning her full attention to him now, having finished with the laundry in front of her. "I'm just ready to be home. When you grow up in the country, you have this notion that anywhere else in the world would be much more diverting. London, in particular. Once you're here, though, it really doesn't feel all that different. Even when I came here with Mrs. Patmore for her eye surgery, I felt happy to be of help to her, but I didn't feel the need to explore beyond where I was meant to go. It's just more people. Not _more_."

"So a quiet life in the village is what you're after?" Bates asked.

"Sounds a bit boring," Anna replied, smiling.

"Sounds a bit like heaven."

Anna's smile faded slightly as the past that seemed to haunt Mr. Bates, the wife he never spoke of, all settled into that tiny room with them, as always seemed to happen when they shared quiet moments like this. Bates looked down, unable to keep Anna's gaze for too long.

A different, better kind of life might have allowed him to stare into her kind eyes for as long as he wanted to, but that was not this life. He knew that Anna was fond of him, and he chastised himself for that fact being true. He had liked her too much to push her away when he should have, as a married man, even if "wife" was the last thing that Bates thought of when he thought of Vera. When he'd first come to Downton Abbey, years ago now, he'd imagined a place where the solitude he sought would be easy to come by. He knew he'd be part of a large staff, of course, but keeping to himself and staying out of the way was something he'd thought he could manage, having done so easily at previous places of employ. He couldn't at Downton, though. There were too many friends—and a couple of eager enemies—for that desire to ultimately prove true.

And there was Anna.

In the rare moments Bates allowed himself to hope, and to imagine things as different from how they were, he pictured himself standing up to Vera, demanding a divorce, and wondering whether Anna would take the little he had to offer. For all that to happen, though, he'd have to stand up to Vera, and every time he had ever tried that in the past, Vera had somehow managed to cut him off at the knees.

Anna watched Bates for several minutes, appreciating how hard it must be to remain as stoic as he tried to remain in moments like this, and wondering whether anyone else saw all that she could see behind his eyes.

"Mr. Bates?" she ventured quietly, breaking the stillness in the room.

Bates looked back up at her, but before Anna could go on, Carson entered.

"There you are, Mr. Bates," he said, in his usual commanding voice. "I just wanted to check to see if everything is ready to load. Miss O'Brien has all her ladyship's cases at the door, and Lady Edith and Lady Sybil's. The motor should come around in a few minutes."

"Yes, Mr. Carson, just finishing up," Bates said standing up.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson it was my fault," Anna spoke up. "I kept him with my chatting."

"Nonsense," Bates said. "I know his lordship will want to bathe and change when he arrives, and I wanted to have all of that ready in a separate case, including the shoes. I'll go up now to get everything down."

Carson nodded. "I'll send Christopher to help," he said, referring to one of the young men the family took on as a temporary footman when they were in London.

Carson was about to follow Bates out of the room when Anna's voice stopped him.

"Don't you usually go back to the house before the family, Mr. Carson?"

"Normally, yes," he replied, "but Lady Grantham changed her mind about when she wanted to leave this week, and in any case, Mrs. Hughes will have the house ready. My early departure is more habit than necessity."

"Do you know why her ladyship changed her mind?" Anna asked.

Carson arched his eyebrows, apparently surprised by the question. "Because she can."

Anna held back a smile at Carson's constancy when it came to refusing to question the family. Anna, herself, had not heard any particular reason from Mary, who likewise had not given much in the way of explanation for staying behind. Other years, Anna wouldn't have thought anything of it, but in this case, Anna sensed that something was weighing heavily on Mary. When Edith and Anthony's engagement had been announced, Anna wondered whether it was merely the disappointment of seeing her younger sister get engaged before she did, but she eventually dismissed this notion. As proud as everyone knew Mary could be, Anna understood her better than most.

Mary could have been married by now, if marriage for its own sake had ever been what she was after. Even when she'd agreed to marry Patrick Crawley, there was more behind her motivations. Anna understood these things, just as she knew Mary would not begrudge Edith happiness with a man in whom Mary had never had any interest. Whatever was troubling Mary now—if "troubling" was the word for it, and Anna was not sure it was—was something different. Something Mary couldn't even bring herself to confide in Anna about. _That_ was what worried Anna the most, the fact that Mary had no confidant but herself, because Mary rarely gave herself the best advice.

"Is everything ready for Lady Mary?" Carson asked, taking Anna out of her thoughts.

"Yes," Anna said. "She left for Lady Rosamund's this morning. The motor will be back this afternoon for me."

"Mrs. Hughes will be sure to miss you," Carson said, with a smile.

"And I will miss all of you."

"Even so, I'm glad Lady Mary has you to help her. She deserves some time to enjoy a bit of the London limelight on her own."

Anna smiled, and Carson went on his way. Carson's constancy when it came to Lady Mary was something else that Anna admired in him, and just now, she could hear something in his voice that said the help Anna could offer Mary was not merely that of a woman in charge of dressing her. And that even the self-assured Lady Mary needed to be given room to shine, after having to concede society's attention first to Sybil upon her debut and then Edith upon her engagement.

He would never say such things aloud. Certainly, Carson would never suggest that someone like Mary couldn't manage her life or her heart on her own, but it showed Anna that Carson was more keenly aware of Mary's current emotional state than Anna would have guessed.

Anna knew that there was more to Mary asking her to stay with her than Mary let on. It was true that, on the precipice of the biggest decision of her life, Mary needed a friend more than she needed a lady's maid. Luckily for Mary, Anna was both.

* * *

**Later that day**

Cora had wanted to believe she would feel some relief when she walked into Downtown Abbey again. It was the lingering shred of hope in her that her world wasn't about to turn upside down.

Again.

Walking into the house, though, everything became real. She was pregnant.

After a month of illness, poor appetite and exhaustion that she'd only allowed O'Brien to be privy to, it was the only explanation—within Cora's understanding of her own body—that was left. Looking back on her time in London now, it was a wonder that it took her so long to recognize the obvious. But, then again, how could she recognize it? How, in her preoccupation with Sybil's season and the looming fight with Robert over Sybil's desire to marry Tom? How, in her muted excitement for Edith, the daughter that no friend or relation would have guessed would be the first to marriage but who Cora feared would be doomed to become a young widow? How, in her concern for Mary, who couldn't seem to get out of her own way after finally receiving an offer worthy of her from Matthew?

Matthew.

An heir who had endeared himself to the family so thoroughly might no longer be in that position in a matter of months. If, finally, Cora's long-ago wish for a son for her husband came true, Matthew's wise and thoughtful investment in Downtown Abbey would become a debt the Crawleys did not have the wherewithal—financial or emotional—to repay.

"How do you find the house, milady?" Mrs. Hughes asked Cora as they family walked through the front door, the servants all buzzing with activity just outside the house doors.

"Very well, thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Cora replied. "You always take such great care when we are away. If I'm not more effusive now, it's only because the journey was a bit tiring. I'll be going up to rest for a bit."

Mrs. Hughes nodded as Cora moved off, into the entrance hall, with Robert a few feet behind her.

"Will Lady Mary be back soon?" Mrs. Hughes asked him.

"She's staying on with my sister for a couple of weeks," he answered. "Any local news?"

"The main topic here is the murder of the Austrian Archduke," Mrs. Hughes replied.

"Here and everywhere else," Carson said, eager to see the family in before getting himself settled back in downstairs.

"I'm afraid we haven't heard the last of that," Robert said, with a sigh. "I think I'll wash the train off before dinner."

Bates, who'd followed Robert in from the motor, said, "Very good, milord. I can unpack while you're bathing."

"I'll see you up there," Robert said, giving Cora a smile as he passed her on his way up the stairs too absentmindedly to notice that the smile she offered in return did not quite reach her eyes. Cora had stopped just before going up herself to wait for Sybil and Edith, who were a few steps behind their parents as they made their way in. As they, too, approached the stairs, Cora noticed Mrs. Hughes moving off and called out to her.

"Mrs. Hughes, I wonder if I could trouble you for a moment before you go back downstairs."

"Of course, milady," Mrs. Hughes answered.

Noticing that Sybil and Edith had walked past her and were now headed up the stairs, Cora stopped them.

"Sybil?"

"Yes, mama?" she said, turning back toward Cora. Edith, one step above Sybil on the stairs, stopped as well.

"You were a great success in London, darling," Cora said, proudly. "Well done."

Sybil smiled, unsure how to respond and unsure of what her mother meant by "success," exactly. She'd enjoyed herself well enough, thanks mostly to Imogen, Tom Bellasis, and her sisters, but the season had not managed to charm Sybil away from her current path the way she knew her parents had hoped it would. Still, Sybil could see a sincerity of feeling in her mother's eyes that she wouldn't forget.

Without saying anything, Sybil turned again to go up, eager to freshen up so she could sneak away and go see Tom, whom she knew would be waiting for her at their spot this afternoon. But Edith remained where she stood with a knowing smirk on her face.

"You never say that to me," Edith said to their mother.

"Don't I?" Cora said as she walked up the steps to meet Edith. Taking Edith's hands, Cora said, "You were very helpful, dear. Thank you."

"Helpful?"

"Yes, now why don't you go upstairs and mind the fact that you are getting married in a few months and will be the center of attention soon enough."

Edith heard Sybil snicker and furrowed her brow in response, but meeting her mother's eyes again and feeling a bit humbled by Cora's words, Edith's expression softened into a smile. "I'm sorry."

"The spotlight feels warm, but its light can also be harsh, darling, remember that."

Squeezing Edith's hands one more time, Cora turned and went back down to where Mrs. Hughes was waiting for her, in the now empty hall, but did not speak until she could hear from their footsteps that Edith and Sybil had made it all the way up the stairs.

"The engagement was the talk of the village, last week, when everyone saw it in the paper," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Yes," Cora replied, "I can hardly believe it myself, but she seems happy, and Sir Anthony is a good man."

"And it'll be in September?"

Cora nodded. "They don't want a long engagement, which is understandable, given Anthony's age, but it doesn't offer much time to prepare, I'm afraid. It'll be all hands on deck for the garden party, which will be held in their honor, and then full steam ahead for a fall wedding."

"Was that what your ladyship wanted to talk about?"

"Oh, no, my request is a bit more immediate, actually. Would you mind having one of the hall boys go fetch Dr. Clarkson?"

Mrs. Hughes' expression changed to one of concern. "I'd be happy to milady. Is someone ill?"

"It's me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Oh, well—"

"No need to worry, it's nothing serious, not even an illness really . . . at least I don't think. Anyway, would you mind?"

"Not at all milady. I'll do it straightaway." Mrs. Hughes headed off, wondering why she and not O'Brien, who'd gone straight upstairs with Cora's cases without a word, was given the task. Mrs. Hughes didn't mind doing it, of course, but a tiny thread of concern tickled at the back of her mind. She hoped that it was as Cora had said, nothing serious.

Cora made her way upstairs, the knots in her stomach not giving way for anything. When she stepped into the bedroom, she saw O'Brien carefully laying out clothes for her to rest in. No sooner had Cora closed the door, O'Brien came over and took her coat and followed her to the vanity, where she'd take Cora's hat off and restyle her hair for the afternoon.

"When did you know, O'Brien?"

The words startled the maid. She saw Cora's eyes looking at her—serious, almost angry—in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

"Pardon me, milady?" O'Brien replied, refocusing on Cora's hair, though she could feel her charge's eyes still on her.

"When did you know?"

"I'm not sure—"

"Just tell me. When did you know?"

O'Brien straightened herself up and met Cora's eyes in the mirror once again, but did not avoid the gaze now, as she had just a moment ago.

_So she's figured it out, has she?_

The secret that only O'Brien had known had somehow, quietly, become a secret they shared but had not acknowledged aloud. Until now.

"The night of Lady Sybil's ball," O'Brien answered.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I—I couldn't be sure."

"I thought I could trust you."

"I don't understand, milady." O'Brien's face was the picture of stoicism, but Cora's words rattled her. Irked and unable to stop herself, O'Brien said, "What difference does it make?"

"I could have done something about it."

O'Brien's eyes widened. This was the last that she'd expected.

"Milady—"

Cora covered her eyes and her shoulders started to shake, angry at herself for entertaining the thought but angrier still at God for doing this to her, for giving her a son—for she felt in her heart even now that the child would be a boy, something for which she had longed for too many years—at the exact time in her life when his arrival would be least welcome.

O'Brien wasn't sure how to respond. The usually unflappable lady's maid, now almost a decade in Cora's service, had seen much in her time at Downton Abbey, but she'd never seen Cora break down like this. Sure only that she should do something, O'Brien gently put her hand on Cora's shoulder. Cora took O'Brien's hand for a second and squeezed it before pushing it off, in seeming annoyance.

"Never mind," Cora said firmly. "Get on with it. Dr. Clarkson will be here soon."

* * *

Tom stood up from where he'd been sitting reading in the Crawley House parlor when he saw Isobel come into the room.

"Well, the family's all back safe and sound," Isobel said, sitting down on the sofa across from Tom. "Carson just called to say as much, and to let us know Pratt will be by to take us to the house for dinner."

Tom smiled. "I know it's not a particularly strenuous journey, but you'd think after a day's travel, they'd want to take it easy."

"I suppose, though it's not surprising. Their set lives by their social calendar. I don't think they know of another way to live."

"What did you think of what you saw of it in London?" Tom asked, genuinely curious. Since her return, a couple of weeks before, she hadn't said much beyond telling him that the luncheon Sybil hosted with her friend had been thoroughly entertaining and came off as a great success.

"I enjoyed myself, I must admit, but I wonder whether that's owing to the fact it was Sybil's debut. She's such a nice girl. I was happy to be there for her, and it seemed that things were rather understated to suit her taste, which also suited me."

"So you like Sybil very much, then?" Tom asked quietly.

Isobel turned her head slightly, surprised at what might be behind his question.

"I do, Tom. You know that."

"He looked down. "I do know. It's just . . . well, I like her too—rather, I love her."

Isobel blinked several times in surprise. "You do?"

Tom nodded sheepishly. "I'm comforted by the fact that it surprises you. I thought by this point, it was written all over my face."

"Well, I have noticed that you have a close friendship, but it never occurred to me that it would ever be more than that."

"Because you think it inappropriate?"

"No . . . I suppose I expected you not to want to marry into such a family, given your politics."

"I didn't expect it either to be honest."

Isobel smiled. "So it often is with love. Does she know you feel this way?"

Tom nodded again. "Now that the family's back from London, we plan on speaking with Robert about, um, well, about getting married."

"Is that why you are telling me now?"

"Yes. I know it'll come as a surprise to him, and there may be a fight. I hate to put you in the middle of it, but Robert may not like the idea of a daughter of his marrying someone like me."

"Because you have no money or title, or because you are Irish Catholic?"

Tom chuckled uneasily. "Both?"

"It's rather absurd that such things would be held against you, but perhaps we should expect the best of them."

"That's not what you usually do," Tom said quietly. "You usually expect the worst."

Isobel sighed. "I'm afraid that's a charge I can't deny." She stood, and Tom did the same. "But they know you well. They know your character. I dare say even Violet would never argue against that."

Tom smiled. "When we told them about mam, Robert said he was angry that I assumed the worst of him. He was right, and yet, I can't help but do the same now."

"When it comes to parents and their children, it's hard to predict anything," Isobel said. "And Sybil being rather a free spirit, well . . . my advice to you is not to concern yourself so much with what they will say, but how you and Sybil respond to it. That's all you can control. Responding to stubbornness with the same won't help you in the long run."

Tom couldn't help but laugh. "I'll make sure to say that to Sybil."

"Will you speak to him tonight?"

"No. We thought it best to wait until they are settled back in."

Isobel sighed. "That seems like a good idea. Just . . . be careful, please, my boy."

Tom smiled, as always grateful for her constant concern for him. "I'll try to be." He looked down at the book on his lap for a minute, but unable to find his concentration again, knowing that he was meant to see Sybil soon, he stood. "I was planning on going for a short walk this afternoon, and if I need to get back to go to dinner, it's probably best I leave now."

"Very well," Isobel said, watching Tom proudly as he made his way out of the room.

"Do be careful, my boy," she repeated to herself once she was gone. "Very careful."

Outside, Tom thought about what Isobel said, but what care could he take at this juncture? He was too far gone. But he didn't think on it long as he walked, heading to the place he knew Sybil would be as soon as she could get away. And for now, seeing her again after weeks apart was all that mattered.

* * *

"Where are you off to?"

Sybil turned around and saw her father coming out of the library as she got to the bottom of the stairs on her way to the front door. "Nowhere," she replied, "just in search of a bit of fresh air."

"You're glad to be home, I imagine," Robert said, as he made it to where Sybil was standing in the main hall.

"I am," Sybil said with a smile. "But if you're wondering, since the question looks to be on the tip of your tongue, I did enjoy myself this month."

Robert pursed his lips. "No need to patronize me."

Sybil looked down, smiling but somewhat embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I meant it, though."

"I'm glad," Robert replied. "Your mother was hearing about the luncheon you hosted up until this morning. Seems you made quite an impression."

Sybil blushed sightly. She was extremely proud of how well things had gone, not merely because the event had been well attended and a lot of money had been raised, but also because of the connections she had made—one in particular that would change the course of her future even more than Sybil could imagine at this moment. "It went off even better than I thought it would, though Imogen should take most of the credit," Sybil said. "It was her idea."

"Perhaps you can make it an annual event."

"Perhaps." Sybil wanted to say more—to say that though she'd always want to find ways to support other women, it wasn't likely that many more charity luncheons, let alone another season in London, would be part of her future. But they'd just gotten home that day. Sybil was too eager to go see Tom to get into a circular conversation with her father about what she knew about her own future and what he and her mother expected.

Sensing that they'd exhausted the well of this conversation and not wanting to stir the peaceful waters that their relationship had managed to reach, Robert said, "Go on, if you must, but don't be late for dinner."

Sybil smiled, not taking this happy moment with her father for granted, but still eager to see Tom where she knew he was waiting. "I won't be," she said, then turned to go.

Robert watched her as she walked through the hall then turned headed for the entrance. He turned to head up the stairs, only to see Dr. Clarkson making his way down.

"Hello, Doctor," Robert said with surprise. "I didn't know you were here."

"Lady Grantham sent a message."

"Why? She's not ill, is she?"

Dr. Clarkson smiled slightly. "Not ill, exactly."

Robert's heart jumped into his throat, but too many thoughts began ringing in his head for him to be able to determine in that moment if it was out of excitement or dread.

"Would you mind waiting in the library?" he said to Dr. Clarkson. He ran up the stairs and around the gallery to Cora's room and went in without bothering to knock on the door. But as soon as he was in the room, Robert had no words.

O'Brien, who had been fluffing the pillows around Cora, stopped upon his entry and after a look at Cora, who nodded, left husband and wife alone.

"Sit down, Robert," Cora said quietly. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed, but Robert couldn't tell if whatever tears had fallen had done so out of happiness or the same anxiety he was feeling. He sat down on an armchair just inside the door without taking his eyes off Cora.

"Dr. Clarkson—"

"I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Robert said the word quietly, as if he didn't quite get its meaning. "I wouldn't have thought it possible at this point."

"You needn't be quite so shocked. I'm not so old as your mother."

"Give me a moment. You haven't been pregnant for 18 years."

"I shouldn't tease. It's not as if I saw it coming."

"I don't understand what we've done differently," Robert said wryly.

"Stop right there. If you want to know more, go down and offer the doctor some whisky."

Robert laughed in spite of himself. "I can't take it in."

Cora watched him carefully. "But you're pleased?"

Robert stood and walked over to the bed, taking Cora's hands. "Of course . . . aren't you? Is that why you've been crying?"

Cora sighed. "I don't know why I cried. I've suspected for a week or so but held it in, trying to convince myself it was my imagination. Coming against the reality of it today, all of the feelings came out, good and bad. I wish I could simply delight in it as I ought to, but . . . well, I suppose I know more than you."

"I don't understand."

"Matthew has asked Mary to marry him."

Robert dropped Cora's hands, in greater shock than he was before. "What?!"

"He asked her while he was in London for Sybil's ball, and she asked me not to tell you."

"Why ever not?"

"Because she wants to make up her own mind."

"And has she?"

Cora shook her head. "If you were wondering why she wanted to stay behind, now you know. Robert, this changes everything."

Robert sighed. "Or it may not."

"It feels different this time. I don't know why I know that, but I do."

"But there's no way of knowing for sure?"

"No."

Robert sat down at the edge of the bed. "We've never been good at making boys."

Cora felt her heart tighten and her eyes water again. "James and Patrick died two years ago. Two years! That's how long I've spent worrying about what would become of Mary, and now that she's finally gotten the offer we've been hoping for, the landscape changes again."

"It's the same position she'd be in if this pregnancy had come one year after Sybil, instead of eighteen," Robert said.

"And it's the same position Sybil and Edith are in now."

"It's only Matthew whose life would change," Robert said, with clear regret in his voice.

Cora sat up slightly, and reached for Robert's hand. "How much of his money is in the estate now?"

Robert squeezed Cora's hand, and with his other hand rubbed his eyes, pushing his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose.

"Robert?"

"I don't know," he said finally.

"But we can find out, right? Pay him back?"

"We're in this house again because of Matthew," Robert said, looking at Cora again. "Sale this time would be unavoidable. Could you relive the nightmare of leaving? We may have to."

"Or we may not," Cora said. "I say that I'm sure it's a boy, but I don't know any better than you do, to be honest."

Robert leaned in and pulled her into a hug. "I should go talk to Dr. Clarkson."

"What are we going to do?"

Robert stood. "Wait."

"What is Mary going to do?"

"I'm afraid that's a question I've never known the answer to."

* * *

 

**June 1914**

_The ballroom at Claridge's was always in high demand in June. Even securing it for a luncheon was no small feat. Sybil might have thought the location a bit too ambitious when Imogen suggested it, but Imogen insisted, primarily because her mother did so. Lady Priscilla wasn't entirely thrilled with her daughter's growing political interests, but charity was something that she understood. And if Imogen was going to put herself out there for a cause, she would not do it by half if her mother had anything to say about it._

_In the end, filling the room was not so great a challenge as either of the young hostesses initially expected. Once word got out among Lady Priscilla's set that the heiress to the Wilkes fortune and the daughter of the earl of Grantham had something up their sleeve, curiosity mixed—at least in some—with a genuine desire to do good for a good cause led to a rush for seats at the table. And, of course, there was ample interest among the medical students. Once the event came together, some of the guests thought better care should have been taken in drawing up that very seating arrangement, but that was only the older women, who did not realize that Sybil and Imogen "mixed" intentionally._

_Both of them offered words of welcome at the start. Imogen spoke first, and Sybil marveled at how easily Imogen commanded the room without even having bothered to prepare remarks. When Sybil's turn came, she felt butterflies in her belly and gripped tightly the small card on which she'd written what she wanted to say, as all eyes in the room turned in her direction. She didn't consider herself an especially social person, one who immediately felt and easily acted as if she belonged in every room she stepped in, like Mary, Imogen and even Tom. But then, Sybil remembered that some of the women in this particular room were also aspiring doctors and that at least among their kindred spirits, she should feel comfortable._

_So after a deep breath, she began:"Thank you, Miss Wilkes, and thank you all so very much for joining us today to support the Fund for the Royal Free Hospital's School of Medicine for Women. As Miss Wilkes mentioned, we are here not only to provide much needed support the future doctors of England, but also to support each other as women. Equality is not a fight we may win individually. We can only win it together. Thank you for fighting with us. Speaking specifically to the medical students present, thank you for being here, for your commitment to the field of medicine, and for beating the path many more women will follow. Now, I will turn it over to Mr. Thakeray and Miss Blenkinsop who will tell us about the fashions their models will show us today. We urge all guests to bid, and bid generously to support our worthy cause."_

_Sybil stepped away from the small podium at which she and Imogen had been standing, and a slender man with pursed lips and a humorless expression took over from her and introduced the first model. Sybil had wondered upon meeting him minutes earlier whether he had the right disposition for this event, but Imogen had insisted that the head of fashion at Selfridge's was the best at his job—and his taste, apparently, was considered sacrosanct._

_As Sybil watched the audience, though, she could easily see that her concerns were for naught for Mr. Thakeray and his colleague Miss Blenkinsop held their audience rapt from the start. She and Imogen had agreed to visit every table before sitting down, and once the fashion show was in full swing, they split up and began doing so from opposite sides of the room. About fifteen or so minutes later, Sybil was not halfway through her side of the room, when she saw Imogen walking toward her with another woman in tow. The woman looked older, in her 40s perhaps, and was smartly dressed in a burgundy suit. Imogen's eyes were wild with barely contained excitement._

_"Sybil, a moment?"_

_"Of course," Sybil said, stepping up to them._

_"This is Dr. Augusta Wentworth," Imogen said, gesturing to the woman next to her, who immediately extended her hand to Sybil. "She teaches at the college and runs the fund we're supporting—I mentioned that she'd be coming?"_

_"Oh, yes," Sybil replied, shaking Dr. Wentworth's hand and wondering what it was exactly that had Imogen so worked up. "Thank you so much for coming," Sybil said. "We're thrilled to be supporting your students."_

_"And we're thrilled to have your support," Dr. Wentworth said. "We're proud and grateful for our patron Lord Goring, naturally, but his endowment has no earmarks for students' financial needs, when those needs exist, and since monies are parceled out according to the very many demands on our institution, the fund for the needier students tends to get the scraps. Those demands are not unimportant, but I often feel that we could be doing so much more to help young ladies who have talent but cannot attend for lack of money or connections."_

_"We're happy to help," Imogen said._

_"Indeed," Sybil added. "Though sorry to hear that you don't have a more regular source of funding."_

_"My personal opinion," Dr. Wentworth went on, "if I may be perfectly frank with you, my ladies, is that we'd fare far better if his lordship were married. This does tend to be the kind of thing a wife takes up. Mrs. Roger Bellasis has helped us from time to time, but she feels that it is not her place to do more as she's only Lord Goring's sister-in-law, and I do understand that as well. She mentioned that you have struck up a friendship with her son, so I can only hope for our sake that it continues."_

_"We are ahead of you on that note," Sybil said with a quick look over at Imogen who could not keep herself from blushing ever so slightly at the word "wife," given her attachment to the heir of the man who, as Dr. Wentworth had just pointed out, currently had none._

_Despite that, Imogen didn't miss a beat and quickly added, "Dr. Wentworth is also on the board of admission—oh, I see Lady Susan has finally arrived. I better go and say hello lest she be rendered disinclined to open up her purse."_

_Sybil smiled, watching her friend greet the rich, old woman, understanding that it was this final detail she reveal about Dr. Wentworth's role that had excited Imogen. "Miss Wilkes is a marvel," Sybil said. "This event was her idea. I'm so glad we could be of help."_

_"Well, I know you have other things to attend to," Dr. Wentworth responded, "I just wanted a chance to say thank you to you both in person. I'd be happy to give you a tour of our offices if you are so inclined, to see where all your help has gone."_

_Sybil thought for a moment_. _This was as good an opening as Sybil was going to get._

_"Now that you mention that, doctor, I would like that very much . . . for rather selfish reasons."_

_Dr. Wentworth tilted her head slightly. "Oh?"_

_Sybil bit her lip and looked down for a moment before raising her head again. "I wouldn't need your funds' support to do it, but I . . . well, it's my goal to attend the medical college myself . . . as a student."_

_"Oh!" Dr. Wentworth seemed surprised, but not judgmentally so. "Have you submitted your application? We're doing a round of testing this month, and I have the feeling the demand for women doctors is about to increase. We'll need women from all corners, even high society."_

_"I'm not ready, I'm afraid. I didn't have traditional schooling, so I must do some catching up first. It'll likely be another year, perhaps two."_

_"Are you working with a tutor?"_

_"Of sorts. My, um, my old governess is helping me, as is a cousin of mine who worked as a nurse during the Boer wars. Her husband was a doctor in Manchester before he died, years ago, and she worked along side him for much of that time. She's the president of the board of the hospital my family patronizes—it's a small country hospital up north—and she has supported my work there as a volunteer."_

_"You're a volunteer nurse?"_

_Sybil chuckled. "That title would be a bit of a stretch, but I'm trying to get my hands dirty, so to speak."_

_"Well, your ambition is to be admired, Lady Sybil," Dr. Wentworth said. "I wish you the best of luck."_

_"Thank you." After a beat, Sybil asked, "May I ask what you meant when you said that the demand for women doctors was about to go up?"_

_"It always does in times of war, when the men must be sent into the trenches. I pray that will not be the case, but there seems to be quite a bit of unrest on the continent. If England is pulled into war again, doctors will be in short supply here at home and nurses will be needed here and at the front. Sad that it takes such calamity for women to have opportunity." Dr. Wentworth paused and regarded Sybil quietly for a long moment. "We hold two rounds of testing for every class, one in early summer and one in the fall. Why don't you put your name on the list for the fall? Even if you don't think you are ready, the truth is that none of us really ever feel ready at the start. By then we may know just how much we need you. Will you do it?"_

_Sybil didn't hesitate."I will."_

_Dr. Wentworth smiled. "Good. Call my office—Miss Wilkes has the number—and I'll set up a tour this week. Now, I'll let you get back to it."_

_Without another word, Dr. Wentworth went back to her table. Sybil could hardly believe what she'd just agreed to. Apply for fall admission less than a year after she'd begun? She was progressing faster than Miss Perry had imagined, but could it really happen so fast?_

* * *

**July 1914**

Sybil arrived by the creek after Tom did and stood several yards behind him, watching him for several minutes before letting him know she was there. He was standing on the edge of the mossy bank, holding his hands behind his back and looking around, obviously enjoying the momentary solitude. Eventually, he turned his head far enough around to catch a glimpse of Sybil out of the corner of his eye. He smiled seeing her and realizing that she'd been there watching him. He turned himself all the way around to face her, but neither one made any move to rush over to the other.

"How long have you been standing there?" Tom asked, taking a step toward her.

"Not long," she replied, taking a step herself.

Tom took another step toward Sybil. "Did you have a pleasant journey back?"

She took another step toward him. "I did."

"And have we drawn this moment out enough already?"

Sybil laughed and skipped the rest of the way into his arms. "Yes," she said, burying her face in his neck. Pulling away, the happy couple looked at each other with bright eyes for a moment before finally giving into their long-awaited kiss.

And kiss they did for several long minutes, after which they both sighed and looked at one another contentedly.

"Golly, I've missed you," Sybil said.

"Me too," Tom replied.

They kissed again one more time before Tom pulled Sybil toward a patch of grass where the sun was shining. Not letting go of his hand, Sybil followed him and sat down, pulling him down next to her so she could lean against his shoulder.

"How was the rest of your season?" he asked, setting his hat down on the grass next to him.

"Fine enough, I suppose," Sybil answered.

"Just _fine enough_?"

"You'd never hear mama and papa say it, of course, but once you've been to one party among London society, you've been to them all. I spent most of my time with Imogen and Tom Bellasis, which I enjoyed, but there's very little to report back that was very exciting, I'm afraid."

"So you've not changed your mind about . . . "

"What? Giving it all up to marry you?"

Tom chuckled. "Well, have you?"

Sybil let Tom go and crossed her arms in a huff. "How dare you suggest I would even entertain such a notion!"

Tom's chuckle became full laughter, and he put his arm around Sybil to pull her back into him again. "Just making sure. How am I to know what happens at these things?"

Sybil laughed too. Then, lifting her hand to his cheek to pull his face toward hers, she said, "I am surer now than I was even when I said yes. I don't think I had to make it through this month to know that nothing of that life is of any interest to me, but having made it through, I am only too happy to report that giving it all up is hardly a sacrifice."

"Giving up your family would be a sacrifice," Tom said quietly.

"It would, but it's not one they'll ask me to make. I know we've worried about what papa will say, and I know him too well to think it will all be smooth sailing but . . . well, I suppose I can't help but have faith in them."

Tom smiled. He took her hand and kissed its palm before settling back against the grass. Sybil laid herself down against him, feeling calm as she heard his heart beat against her ear.

"I told Aunt Isobel today," he said.

"About us?"

"Yes."

"And what did she say?"

"She has faith in your family too."

Sybil sat up to look into his eyes again. "What about you?"

Tom pushed himself up again too. "Do I have faith in Robert?" he asked, with a cheeky look in his eye.

Sybil smiled. "Him or the family or . . . us."

"Yes, I do," Tom answered, taking a deep breath. "In all of the above."

"But you still seem worried."

"I can't help it, I suppose. Whatever happens with your father and your family will work itself out, whether than means they'll welcome me as son-in-law with open arms or we marry and live by our wits when they don't. But I've wondered in the last few days if our concern over how your parents will react has kept us from seeing a greater concern ahead."

"What would that be?"

Tom sighed. "I don't know. War, perhaps."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "Would you fight if one came?"

"No," Tom responded immediately. "Even if I considered myself an Englishman loyal to the crown and its orders, I don't have the heart for it. Quite literally."

Sybil's alarm grew. "Is something wrong with your heart?!"

Tom chuckled. "No, no—well, there _is_ , but it's nothing life-threatening. When I was young Uncle Reginald discovered that I have a heart murmur. It's just serious enough that I'd be disqualified from the physical rigor of the kind likely to be demanded by the Royal Army." Sybil breathed a sigh of relief, which made Tom smile. "I'd love nothing more than to defy an order to fight if it ever came for me," he added, "but alas, given my condition, they'll likely not want me to begin with."

"A fact I will celebrate, even if you don't," Sybil said. After a beat, she asked, "What is your condition called?"

"A pansystolic murmur caused by a . . . mitral . . . something. I can't remember. I'm sure Aunt Isobel does, if you want me to ask her."

"I do," Sybil said, in a serious tone. "As your future doctor I should know, don't you think?"

Tom nodded. He took Sybil's hand and held it to his chest. "You're its keeper in more ways that one."

Sybil smiled, but the smile faded as she watched Tom look away for a moment, and bite his lip.

"Matthew would fight," he said, quietly. "I'd have to consider that in making any decisions about when to leave Crawley House and where to go when I do. I'd have to reconsider my responsibilities to Aunt Isobel."

Sybil thought for a moment. "Actually, now that you mention it, at the risk of sounding like the ghastly prospect of war is something I'd welcome, it would change things for me as well."

"Oh?"

"I met a woman in London—a doctor," Sybil said. "She came to our luncheon and she works with the Royal Free. She said that if and when war comes the demand for women in the fields of health will increase considerably."

"She's likely right."

"She told me that, given that possibility, I should apply to the college in the fall."

"Really?!"

Sybil nodded. "I told her that I didn't think I'd be ready, but she said women rarely ever feel ready for the challenges they undertake."

"Whereas men tend to jump in with both feet and ask questions later," Tom said laughing.

"Right," Sybil replied. "It's true that there will only be so much I can teach myself, and that I'll always question whether I know or have done enough to prepare. And even if I don't do all that well on the exam, I'll have the experience of having tried once to help me on the second attempt."

Tom narrowed his eyes playfully. "I seem to remember telling you all these same things, and you not believing me when I said them."

Sybil smiled bashfully. "Yes, but yours is not an unbiased opinion, and her was."

"That's true enough."

"I can hardly believe I agreed when she asked, but she was so encouraging and made applying as soon as possible seem so logical."

Tom kissed Sybil's hand again and looked at her with new admiration in his eyes. "Let it never be said that Sybil Crawley cannot make her own dreams come true."

Sybil grinned, proud of herself and happy to feel the warmth of his pride in her.

After a moment, Tom asked, "So I suppose it's fair to ask whether this changes our plans about when we'll get married."

Sybil thought for a moment, "It will, but honestly, they might have to change anyway. At least, we have to consider the fact that Edith and Anthony want a fall wedding."

"Do we really need to wait for them to be married before we are?"

"I don't know. It's only that I thought the fall would be when _we_ would do it, but Edith is so traditional. I know the ceremony and celebrations and all of that will be very important to her—much more so than it is to me. I just want us to be married—I'd be happy to do it at a registry office, but then in my parents' world that would invite gossip. And I wouldn't want any of that to steal Edith's thunder."

"There's also . . . um, well . . . it's not something we've talked about, but your parents would also expect Mr. Travis to marry you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . they expect you to marry in the Anglican church."

"Oh . . . oh! I didn't even think of that!"

"You assumed that's what we'd do?" Tom asked, not realizing perhaps until this moment how much he'd been hoping that she'd agree to a Catholic wedding, even if it also hadn't occurred to him to ask the question properly.

"No," Sybil responded quickly, seeing the concern in his eyes. "I suppose I've always understood that marrying in your church would be important—at least, I know it means a lot more to you than marrying in mine does to me. You know that."

Tom sighed in relief. "I do, but I shouldn't have made any assumptions about that. Are you really sure you'd want to be a Catholic?"

"No," she said, answering honestly, "but I am sure I want to be a Branson, and I'll do what it takes."

Tom felt tears prick at the back of his eyes. "Oh, my darling, I do love you so much." He pulled Sybil into yet another kiss. After, leaning his forehead against hers, he said, "Let's just tell them and see what happens."

Sybil nodded, smiling. "Let's go back to the house."

"Now?"

Sybil laughed, as she stood up, with Tom standing up with her. "I don't mean tell them _now_. Let's just . . . not worry about hiding so much anymore. And it's very possible that papa wants to see you too."

"I don't know about that."

"Well, he'd never admit it, but you never know."

Together, Tom and Sybil walked back to the house, a comfortable closeness settling between them, as if they'd passed an invisible line between youthful ardor and the warm contentment of adulthood—the kind of love that carries you through the madness they were just about to step into.

For as they emerged from the wood, Sybil noticed Dr. Clarkson walking through the gates back in the direction of the village.

And when they stepped through Downton's front door, her still bewildered father greeted them with the reason the doctor had been called to the house.

"Cora is pregnant."


	53. One step forward, one step back

 

Mary had taken this train ride more times than she could remember. The bustle and dirty air of the city gave way to the open, green expanses of her home county, which rolled out before her as if personally welcoming her home. It was always an easy trip and always over before she knew it.

This ride was different, though. The time of travel might have been the same, the path the train took the same as well, but Mary was different, and that alone changed everything else.

It was only a few days ago that she had set her mind on a choice that she knew would change the rest of her life. She'd considered and reconsidered Matthew's offer and its various implications—for herself, her heart, and the rest of her family—and she had come to what she believed was the only decision she could. She would be nervous about seeing him again, but she was proud of herself and her resolution.

And then, the very hour in which she'd made up her mind, Sybil's call came.

* * *

_"Milady?"_

_Mary looked up from where she'd been sitting in Aunt Rosamund's library. She'd tried to read a book, but her mind was too busy. The family had left for Downton that morning, and she too would be headed home soon in the matter of a week, maybe two._

_(There had been no real reason for her delay in returning home, other than a desire to consider her future without either of her parents breathing down her neck. She didn't regret telling her mother about Matthew's offer, but Mary didn't expect Cora to keep the secret long, and Mary could tell it was all Cora could think about every time she looked at Mary. She'd made her decision, but she wanted time to allow for it to sink in, and that would be easier here, alone.)_

_Mary saw Rosamund's butler standing over the other end of the sofa on which she sat. "You have a phone call."_

_"I do?"_

_The butler gestured for her to follow him to the main hall, where the telephone was. "It's from Downton Abbey," he said._

_Mary immediately felt worried. She'd not made much use of the telephone in the year or so the house had been equipped with one. So far, experience suggested that the news it brought was usually not welcome. What could have possibly happened since her family's departure from London that very morning and now?_

_Mary picked up the telephone and put the earpiece to her hear. She turned to watch the butler walk down the hall and out of sight, and only when she was alone did she speak._

_"Hello? Lady Mary speaking."_

_"Hello, darling, it's Sybil."_

_"Sybil?" Mary's feelings of dread intensified. In Sybil's few words of greeting, Mary sensed concern in her sister's voice. "What are you calling about?"_

_"There's news . . . I'm not quite sure what to say about it except I wanted you to hear it from me first."_

_"You've barely been gone from London. Did you and Tom do something—you didn't elope, did you?"_

_Sybil couldn't help but chuckle. "No, it's nothing like that. It's something else. It's to do with mama, actually, and Matthew . . . in a way."_

_Mary's brow furrowed. "Well, you have me in suspense. What is it?"_

_On the other end of the line, Sybil closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Mama is pregnant."_

_Mary felt goosebumps spread over her skin. Her heart leapt to her throat. Her grip on the telephone slackened, and it began slipping out of her hands. Its clang on the marble floor startled her, and she bent down immediately to pick it back up._

_When she put the ear piece back to her ear as she stood, she could hear Sybil's alarmed voice. "Mary? Mary?"_

_"I'm here," she said, barely able to hear herself in the rush of emotion making her feel as if her head would explode. "I'm here."_

_"Did you hear me? Are you all right?"_

_"Yes, I heard you. I'm fine, Sybil."_

_There was a long moment's pause before either sister spoke again. It was Sybil who broke the silence. "She's five months along, according to Dr. Clarkson."_

_"How, um, how . . . how could this have happened? Isn't she too old to bear children now?"_

_"No, apparently not. Dr. Clarkson said she's at the end of her fertile years, but even so, there's no reason to believe the baby won't be healthy."_

_Mary took a deep breath. "And Matthew? Have you had a chance to tell him?"_

_"Tom is on his way to Crawley House now. Papa told us only moments ago, to be honest."_

_Mary closed her eyes in an effort to hold back the tears she felt welling in them on Matthew's behalf. "What does papa say?"_

_"Not much beyond random expressions of shock at this point. I went up to see mama before I called and heard him and Tom talking about Matthew's fortune when I came back down. Defining the child's birthright won't be an easy task, it seems. The title would be his, of course, but the estate is half-owned by Matthew now, and he has no obligation to the family not to reclaim what's his when there's a new heir."_

_"If," Mary said. "It could be a girl."_

_"Right," Sybil replied quietly. "If it's a boy."_

_Behind her, Mary heard the click-clack of her aunt's heels. "I think Aunt Rosamund is back. I should go."_

_But before she could let her sister go, Sybil asked the question that had been the reason for her call. "Mary, have you made a decision about Matthew's proposal?"_

_"I need to go now, Sybil," Mary said, and without giving Sybil a chance to respond, put the receiver back on the telephone to end the call._

_Mary turned as her aunt approached._

_"Turner said there's news from Downton."_

_"There is."_

* * *

It was an unseasonably cool afternoon for July. The kind that felt more like September and the few weeks in autumn when life in the country, in all its resplendent colors, most delighted Matthew. He wished he could enjoy the day as he ought, but the uncertainty into which his life had been launched by the news of Cora's present state would not let him. Not for the foreseeable future and certainly not today.

Mary would be stepping off the train and onto the platform on which he now stood in a matter of minutes. Whatever hope he'd had, when he'd left her behind in London, that the next time they saw each other, she'd be ready to take the next step with him was gone. He loved Mary dearly, more than he'd loved anyone—including another woman he'd been certain would be his happy wife before fate took her from him. The love he felt for Mary was of little use to Matthew now, when it was all he had left to offer her

Matthew had learned from Tom that Mary had not returned with the family from London after Tom first shared the news of Cora's pregnancy a week prior. Tom hadn't known how long Mary would remain with Rosamund, but that didn't matter to Matthew, not now that he knew that everything he had offered Mary was suddenly at risk. He assumed her delay was an effort to avoid him and avoid giving him an answer to his proposal. Just like he assumed, now that the prospect of living the life of middle class lawyer was likely for him once again, the possibility of Mary Crawley as his wife was now gone from him forever.

Under different circumstances, Matthew might have laughed off the whole affair, worked carefully with Tom to extricate what was left of his investment in Downton from Robert's affairs and leave what couldn't be undone as a generous gift to a family he had grown to love. But love was making him selfish—as love often does. He had never intended to ask Mary outright whether she loved him or whether she'd be willing to Mary him if Downton and the title of Countess of Grantham were not in the picture. He hoped to marry her, then love her as he knew she needed and deserved with the hope that eventually she'd return the sentiment in kind. Now, though, fate had forced his hand.

And as he stood on that platform as the train approached, he felt fate's grip tighten. There was only one thing left for him to do.

* * *

_Tom was in a daze all the way back to the village, so much so that he almost didn't see Matthew until he was upon him just outside Crawley House, returning from business in the village._

_"Hello," Matthew said brightly. "Back already? I'd have expected you to spend all afternoon with Sybil, given your endless complaints about missing her in her absence."_

_It was said in jest, of course, so when Tom didn't laugh, Matthew for the first time registered the seriousness in Tom's expression. Matthew's shoulders drooped slightly, and he asked, "What's wrong?"_

_"Nothing is_ wrong, _exactly . . . something's happened—rather, something is going to happen—or perhaps not. We can't know until—"_

_"Tom, what is it?" Matthew asked quietly, interrupting his friend's rambling._

_"It's Cora. She's pregnant."_

_"She's_ what _?"_

_"She's with child. The family have just found out. Sybil and I—we saw Dr. Clarkson leave the house not one hour ago, and when we went in, Robert told us."_

_Matthew's mind immediately flashed back to the conversation he'd had with Cora the morning he'd left London, after Sybil's ball._

To be honest, Matthew, if I didn't know any better I would think I was with child.

_"Matthew?" Tom asked, tentatively stepping toward Matthew, who had turned away slightly as the news sunk in._

_Matthew sighed. "She was ill when I left London. She said she felt pregnant, but then . . . then she laughed it off, certain it wasn't possible. She was wrong, apparently?" Matthew looked up, when Tom didn't respond, and chuckled mirthlessly. "I suppose after three daughters, the odds are greater now that she'll finally give the family a son."_

_"Actually, the odds are the same every time," Tom said. "Biology has no sense of drama, I'm afraid."_

_"Has Mary been told?"_

_"Sybil intended to call Lady Rosamund's house after I left."_

_Matthew closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to grab hold of his emotions before they took him over. He supposed he should be glad this happened before Mary had agreed to marry him, so he'd not now have to face the prospect of a broken engagement, but the question was still out there for her to answer, and now the question wasn't about her willingness to marry the new Grantham heir. It was about her willingness to marry Matthew Crawley._

_"Bloody hell," he whispered, as small a release of his sudden frustration as he'd allow himself. But it was quite telling, especially for Matthew._

_"We . . . we can take what comes," Tom said. "Your money and the estate—it won't be pretty and it'll leave Robert with some hard decisions, but you can recover what you've invested. If it even comes to that. If it's a girl, you'd still be the heir. Nothing would change."_

_"This isn't about the title, Tom. I couldn't care less about that. Or the money . . . money for which I would have otherwise had no use."_

_"Then, what is it? Because I can see this is troubling you. I know you—"_

_"I proposed to Mary."_

_Tom's eyes widened in disbelief. "WHAT?"_

_Matthew nodded, closing his eyes, unable to keep the memory of their kiss from coming over him. "While we were in London. The day you were there to see Sybil, actually."_

_"And she said yes?"_

_"No. She asked for time to think about it. Only, I was the heir to the title when I did it. I was offering her Downton, the role of countess of Grantham. I was giving her what her father couldn't, except I made a terrible mistake."_

_"What?"_

_"None of that was mine to give. All of it still belongs to Robert—"_

_"But—"_

_"Oh, I know we've given him money and help to keep it afloat, but it's his. Legally. You've seen the entail."_

_Tom nodded._

_"I wanted to make her happy. Give her what was her due, and now this is a reminder that it wasn't mine to give." Matthew sighed. "I'll have to take it back."_

_"What—the proposal? Why!? She may still say yes! And it all may be rendered moot anyway."_

_Matthew shook his head. "I have to, Tom, don't you see?"_

_"All I see in front of me is a man in love with a woman who may very well love him back."_

_Matthew looked Tom in the eyes. "Tell me, do you believe with complete certainty that Lady Mary Crawley would ever be willing to marry a country solicitor with no title or land to distinguish him."_

_Tom shook his head. "No, I suppose not with complete certainly, but she might be willing marry YOU, if you ask her properly. Not as the heir or with the promise of a fortune and title, but as_ yourself _. She might surprise you."_

_"And if she doesn't?"_

_Tom lsaw a sad desperation in Matthew's eyes that he'd never seen before._

_"I can't hear her tell me she doesn't want me, Tom, not if I am to go on living."_

* * *

Matthew had lost all sense of how long he'd been waiting when he heard the distant whistle of the train announce its impending arrival. He'd worked out in his mind what he intended to say, but he was still rendered rather speechless when he saw her step off the train.

Mary was less prepared than Matthew, if only because she'd had no warning that he'd be coming.

Of course, being Mary, there was no way to tell by merely looking at her when she spotted him on the platform that anything was amiss, that her heart was racing, and that her mind and emotions were going every which way. Matthew was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve either, but there was a more obvious helplessness in his eyes in the face of her stoicism that any fool with a pair of eyes could have seen. Perhaps if Mary were a fraction less self-possessed, the conversation might have gone differently. But Mary was too much herself in that moment, and Matthew, seeing that and loving her all the more for it, felt the need to protect his heart and went on to say what he came to say.

"Hello," Mary said in a measured voice as she approached him. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I hope you don't mind," Matthew replied. "I imagine you're likely tired from the travel but . . ."

"But what?"

"Pratt's here. He can take Anna and your luggage. I thought I might walk you back to the house . . . if you would like."

Mary didn't know what to say. She heard Anna come up behind her.

"Go on, milady. I'll take care of everything."

Mary felt like she couldn't say no. She wanted very much to be in Matthew's company, but his urgency—his having come to the station like this—alarmed her. She couldn't be sure why, but she felt as if something was about to happen, something she wouldn't like.

"All right, then," she said finally.

Matthew moved to let her go ahead of him, remaining quiet until they were away from the station and the crowd.

"I'm sorry for catching you off guard like this," Matthew said, as they walked. "Given what's, um, what's happened, and not knowing what you've told your parents, I thought it best that we talk away from the house, and this seemed like the easiest way to do that."

Mary nodded. Matthew glanced at her from the side of his eyes. He thought she might say something, might turn to look at him again, but she didn't. She was meant to tell him what she wanted when she returned to Downton, but that was before they had learned of Cora's state, and him having sought Mary ought as he'd done, she seemed ready to let him guide their conversation.

He took a deep breath, unsure of how to start. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"

Mary smiled slightly at his innocuous question, given everything that hung between them. "I did."

"How was your final week in London?"

"No different than the previous ones, really . . . well, I suppose that's not quite true. Things at Aunt Rosamund's are a bit more routine."

"Do you ever imagine yourself living there, in London?"

"I'm not sure. Sometimes, I think it would suit me very well. Others, I think it would be perfectly dreadful. I always enjoy the return home, no matter what kind of time I've had. I suppose that makes me a creature of the country." Mary turned to Matthew, who'd been watching her as she spoke. "And you?"

"I don't know. London is not like Manchester, but not terribly unlike it either. I think if you'd told me . . . before all this happened how much I'd come to enjoy life in the country, I'd not have quite believed it. Not because I prefer town, necessarily. I just never knew what it could be like."

"And now?"

Matthew turned toward Mary and smiled in a way that warmed Mary's heart. "Now, I think I like you too much to know whether the country has anything to do with how happy I am here."

Mary opened her mouth to say something, but Matthew looked forward again and added sheepishly. "All of you—the family, Downton, everything."

Mary wasn't sure what to make of him backing away from the suggestion it was only she he liked, but whatever that meant, it was clear he was still admitting what it would mean to lose Downton in the same way she had when Patrick died, losing the future he'd envisioned in it, a future that hadn't belonged to him in the same way it hadn't belonged to Mary.

_He doesn't want to lose it all_ , Mary thought, _and he might._

"You don't have to give me an answer to my proposal," Matthew said.

The words, coming on the heels of the previous admission jolted Mary. "What?"

Matthew stopped walking and turned so they were facing one another. They were not so far from the house now, closer to it than to the village. They were alone on the road that cut through the quiet wood that separated the two. The house was still not visible. It was, in fact, as if they were the only two people in the world in that moment.

"When I said we should get married," Matthew continued quietly, "I was offering you Downton Abbey and your mother's title. I was offering myself as your husband, but on the idea that I could give you the things you deserved . . . that were rightfully yours. It may well be that the child your mother is carrying is a girl, but I couldn't ask you to make a choice that will affect the rest of your life when the other outcome is just as possible."

Mary was dumbfounded. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, this was not it. If anything, she'd expected—hoped, perhaps?—that he would do the very opposite and urge her to take his hand regardless of what may come. To marry  _him_  and not merely the heir to his father. Instead, though, he was taking it back, giving her an out. Up until that moment, Mary had been so afraid of what she wanted, that even when she'd made a decision about Matthew, she had trouble bringing herself to say it aloud. And now, here Matthew was, reading her as he always did, anticipating what she wanted so infernally well. She didn't want to make a choice. She'd made that obvious to him, and now here he was asserting that she didn't have to make it by taking away the choice altogether.

She was beyond disappointed, but anger—Mary's clipped, barely noticeable version of it—was the emotion that came out first.

"Do you mean for us to wait until the baby is born? That seems rather mercenary, don't you think?"

Matthew wasn't sure what to make of her reaction. She seemed taken aback, almost cold. "I . . . I don't know, Mary. It just seems unfair to you to force you to give an answer when things now are different from when I asked it."

"What if I'd given you an answer in Hyde Park?" Mary pressed. "Would you have taken it back?"

Matthew grew frustrated. "I can't guess as to how I would have reacted to this news under different circumstances—I'm barely keeping my head above water under  _these_." He let out a sigh. "You didn't seem sure what your answer would be in Hyde Park. Are you saying you have an answer now?"

Mary looked away. She'd had an answer before she'd learned of the baby. She wanted to tell him what that answer was so that he understood that she hadn't been trying to be coy, but she had to admit that things  _were_  different now, and once again she felt unable to articulate what she wanted. "It's not that I was unsure," she said finally. "I just didn't want to rush into it."

"With good reason, I suppose, given what's happened," Matthew said, with a small smile, hoping to lighten the air between them.

"So what happens now?"

"We could pretend I never said anything. We could talk about what we would do if the child is a girl, but to be honest, Mary, I don't want our situation to alter how your family sees this child or make your parents feel guilty when they see me. It's fair to say that's part of the reason I want to go back. This is happy news for your family—we should all see it as such. I hate myself for putting you in an awkward situation, so I'm doing what I hope is the honorable thing and trying to remove you from it. So . . . we should go back to being good friends, and let whatever happens happen as it will."

"Would that make you happy?" Mary asked. "Just being friends with me?"

Matthew stepped forward and took Mary's hand. "Don't sell yourself short, Cousin Mary. You are a very good friend . . . the best, actually."

Mary smiled, genuinely, for the first time in several days. So welcome was the sight to Matthew that he missed the slight hint of regret behind it. "You, too."

Quietly, they walked the rest of the way to the house.

* * *

"I love the thought of a baby in the house, but if it's a boy . . ." Mrs. Hughes shook her head and took a sip of her tea. She and Carson were in her sitting area during a quiet time in the late afternoon before the rush of dinner preparation began in earnest.

With Lady Mary back earlier that day, the whole family, Reginald Crawleys included, would be dining at the house together for the first time in almost two months. That coupled with the news of the new arrival, the engagement of Lady Edith and the upcoming garden party had the staff and the house more abuzz than usual.

There was also the rumor of the now broken understanding between Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary that managed to sneak its way downstairs after Cora had told Robert about it the day she'd also told him of her pregnancy.

"It'll be very hard on Mr Crawley," Carson said, finishing Mrs. Hughes' thought and surprising her in the process.

He noticed the look of skepticism on her face and responded, "I know, I was no great champion when he first arrived. But it seems to me he's tried his best, and he's done the decent thing."

"I couldn't see that coming off," Mrs. Hughes said dismissively.

"You don't mean the engagement?"

"It was never an actual engagement, was it?"

Carson's brow furrowed in indignation. "She'd not have thrown him over—he was the one who broke it off, and given the potential change in his prospects, I think it admirable that he did so. Though I imagine my lady's heart may been disappointed."

Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Mr. Carson, Lady Mary Crawley does not deserve you."

Carson stood up to take their tea service back to the kitchen. Mrs. Hughes stood as well and noticed for the first time that Thomas had been standing just outside her open door.

"Is there something I can help you with, Thomas?"

"No, Mrs. Hughes," he said and turned toward the servants hall on his way to the yard. O'Brien was already there when he stepped outside, so he joined her at the table and took the cigarette she offered.

O'Brien tilted her chin up as if prodding him to speak.

"Oh, nothing," Thomas said. "Just Carson defending Lady Mary's honor. Mrs. Hughes reckons she would have turned Mr. Crawley down if he'd not done it first."

"She's right," O'Brien huffed. "If Lady Mary wouldn't take Mr. Crawley with the title, she was certainly not going to take him without it."

"Do you really think it's going to be a boy?" Thomas asked.

"There's no way of telling," O'Brien replied. "Some midwives say boys sit differently in the belly, but you can still hardly tell there's a baby at all yet. In another month, perhaps. Her ladyship is convinced of it, but I'm sure it's her own mind playing tricks on her."

"You'd think they'd  _not_  want a boy at this stage," Thomas said, "especially if it would doom Lady Mary to spinsterhood."

"It's going to doom all of us," O'Brien said darkly.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh? Have you forgotten already it was Mr. Crawley's money that got us back into this house?"

"Downton Abbey still belongs to his lordship, though, doesn't it? And I thought all the work they were doing on the farms was so the estate could pay for itself."

"Yes, but don't you remember that wretched year we had to spend at Downton Place? We left here because his lordship couldn't afford the upkeep anymore. Mr. Crawley paid for the family to return, and he paid to restart the farming operation—the running of which is all Mr. Crawley and Mr. Branson's doing. His lordship has not been the head of this household in any way but symbolically since we returned. Few of us below stairs may have noticed, but it's a fact."

Thomas took a long drag from his cigarette and let the smoke out in one long puff. "So you think Mr. Crawley will ask to be paid back if he has to step aside?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Yes, but he's not me."

O'Brien laughed humorlessly. "No, he certainly isn't, but he is human. No person, no matter how noble, could walk away from a fortune and leave it to a family that kicked and screamed bloody murder before they accepted him."

"What'll happen to us, then? If the family have to leave Downton again, they'll be leaving at least half of us behind too. Just like the last time."

"Better make yourself indispensable. Just because you were the last footman standing once doesn't mean you will be again."

Thomas' face grew serious. "What say do  _you_  have over it?"

A smug expression settled over O'Brien's features. "I have her ladyship's ear. And I have nephew who is nothing if not eager to please."

Thomas stood immediately. "Let Alfred have it then. Being a footman is not the only way to live."

With that, he walked away fuming. Thomas knew O'Brien was an unreliable ally at best, but he didn't think she'd outright sabotage him out of a job. He'd been making noises to her about leaving the house for something better for some time, but perhaps now, finally, was the time to act on it.

* * *

After walking Mary home from the train, Matthew sat down with Robert for the first of what was likely several difficult conversations about how to extract Matthew's investment from the Grantham estate if Matthew were no longer the heir. They didn't come to any conclusions, but Robert floated an idea that Murray, his lawyer, had suggested that might keep the family at Downton and offer a measure of compensation for Matthew and what he'd afforded the family, financially speaking. Robert, near tears, acknowledged to Matthew that they could never compensate for what he'd given them emotionally.

On his walk home, Matthew considered the offer and the closer he got to Crawley House, the more sense it made of a situation in which there was very little.

His mother was not so convinced.

"So he'll give us this house for life, will he? How generous."

Matthew rolled his eyes at Isobel's obvious sarcasm. "It  _is_  generous."

"No," Isobel retorted, "it's generous of  _you_. This house is very fine, I grant you, and I'd be happy to continue to live in it, but it does not in any way equal what you've provided. If Robert thinks it is, I'd be happy to give him a lesson in arithmetic myself."

"Mother, don't be ridiculous."

Tom looked back and forth between the two. He and Isobel were seated on the sofa in the Crawley House parlor, while Matthew was stood before them.

"She's not wrong, Matthew," Tom said quietly.

"Thank you!" Isobel said with a firm nod of her head.

"So you think that I should force them to sell the house that's been the seat of the earldom for a hundred years so they can pay me back money I didn't even want in the first place?"

"No," Tom said, with a chuckle. "I merely agreeing that this is not a  _generous_  offer."

Isobel sighed. "Isn't there something else? Some other plot of land that may be more meaningful. I do like the idea of staying in this house, but perhaps some of the outer parcels that make up the estate? You both have managed the whole thing so well, it seems fair to give you something from which you may continue to earn a living."

"I earn my living as a solicitor, and so does Tom," Matthew said.

"Well, for your future children, then."

"What about Downton Place?" Tom asked.

Matthew scratched the back of his head and began to pace. "That was the initial idea from Murray, actually. It's certainly of higher monetary value than this place, but I dismissed it as easily as I knew both of you would dismiss the idea of living there." Turning to face them again, he added, "Was I wrong about that?"

Isobel smiled and shook her head, while Tom replied, "Fair point."

Standing, Isobel said, "I'm sorry for being cross. Perhaps it's silly to get all worked up, my dear, but I don't want you to concede what's yours because you love them. Your interests matter just as much. And in any case, it may not be a boy."

"I'd rather have the conversation now," Matthew said, "and Robert agrees. No need to make the child's entry into the world anything other than an event to be celebrated."

Isobel stepped up to Matthew and patted his cheek with her hand. "Well, I do trust your judgment. Just be fair to yourself. That's all I ask."

Matthew smile. "Thank you, mother."

Turning to Tom, who had stood when she had, Isobel took his hand. "Don't sell your contributions short either, dear. You've given them much of yourself as well, if not an actual fortune."

Tom grinned. "Given that I want to take Sybil from them, I'd say I'll be in their debt in the final accounting."

They all laughed, and after the moment passed, Isobel left her sons alone. Matthew sat down with a sigh in the space on the sofa that his mother had just vacated, and Tom sat back down next to him.

"What does Mary say?" he asked gently, the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since Matthew returned.

"I didn't really leave her with much to say."

"Was she surprised?"

"I'm not sure. She seemed oddly unhappy with me, but I'm still not sure I had any alternative. Can you imagine Mary living as my wife in this house?"

"I could more easily picture you living in Downton Abbey, which wouldn't be all that far-fetched a scenario, even if you weren't the heir."

Matthew thought for a moment, then replied. "It wouldn't be appropriate if I weren't the heir, and I am fairly certain Mary would agree with me on that point."

"What about Downton place? I can picture Mary living  _there._ In fact, she  _has_  lived there before. Can you think of a reason she wouldn't want to be mistress of it?"

Matthew looked at Tom confused. "What are you talking about?"

Tom shifted where he sat so that he could fully face Matthew. "You say that Robert offered it to you as just compensation for your investment in the estate, if it meant the family could stay at the Abbey. You turned it down because you know Aunt Isobel and I wouldn't want live there, but shouldn't you consider the decision with a future wife in mind, instead of us? How many more years do you think you and I will live under the same roof? Living in that kind of house . . . would the life of the wife of a country solicitor be as distasteful as you seem to think she'll find it?"

Matthew considered what Tom was saying. Tom watched him as he did so for several minutes, seeing varying emotions come over Matthew's face until the one that eventually settled was relief, and even a bit of contentment.

"Reserving Downton Place for Mary . . . that's a good idea—a very good idea," Matthew said. He laughed and rolled his eyes. "Leave it to you, as always," he said looking over at Tom with good-natured annoyance. "Why do you have to be so clever?  _I_  should have thought of that."

Tom laughed. "Forgive yourself just this once, brother. Your heart is broken, so you're not thinking clearly. Which, I suppose, is why it sounds like you want to take Downton Place so you can give it to Mary, and not live with her in it as husband and wife, which is what I'm actually suggesting."

Matthew's expression softened into a smile. "I know, but I'm not going to bet on the future. She needs security—with or without me in her life. That would provide a measure of it." Matthew paused for a moment, frowning. "It is rather unfair to Edith and Sybil, though."

"Edith is getting married to someone more than happy and capable of providing for her, and even if Sybil hadn't agreed to marry me, she is not one I'd ever worry about being able to provide for herself."

Matthew laughed. "I suppose that's true. I'd say the same is true of Mary, if she weren't so bloody proud."

"You really are in love with her, aren't you?" Tom said, in a tone that suggested it wasn't really a question.

Matthew shot him a chastising look from the side of his eyes, which made Tom laugh again. He knew he was right. Just like he knew that Matthew, just like Mary, was too "bloody proud" to ever say the thing aloud.

* * *

"They're a pair of fools is what they are!"

Tom smiled at Sybil's assessment of Mary and Matthew's situation and the way she crossed her arms in a huff. "I agree," he replied, "they are a well matched pair in both stubbornness and pride. But what can we do?"

Sybil sighed. All through dinner, she had watched Mary and Matthew speak as courteously to one another as they'd had just about every day they'd been in each other's lives, as if nothing—not an offer of marriage, nor a retraction of that same offer—had passed between them. After, as she and Tom talked alone in the library, they considered the various ways they could bring Mary and Matthew together and secure the happiness they both deserved. But Tom was right. What could be done when the parties involved were so determined not to give in?

"I suppose until the baby is born, the situation will remain muddy," Sybil said. "I'd love for Mary just to throw all caution to the wind and tell Mathew how I know she must feel about him, but that's not Mary."

Tom smiled, knowingly. "That's  _you_."

Sybil looked over at Tom with a twinkle in her eye. "Aren't you the lucky one."

Tom walked over to her and leaned over to kiss her, whispering just before their lips met, "The luckiest."

Sybil smiled into the kiss, brought her hands up to Tom's face and felt his hands at her waist. The kiss deepened as Sybil's arms wrapped around Tom's neck and she went up on her tiptoes as he pulled her in. They stood that way for several minutes—it was cavalier, to be sure, since the library only afforded a small measure of privacy with the doors open, as they were now, but Sybil couldn't help herself. Since returning to Downton, now knowing that being Tom's wife and the release of the intense desire she felt for him could be only a matter of weeks—a handful months at the most—Sybil felt the fire in herself burn more intensely than ever.

It was Tom who pulled away first. He kept her close, but looked down and was treated to the sight of Sybil's bosom rising and falling to the rhythm of her rapid breathing. He shut his eyes tightly and turned his head away, laughing. "We should go join everyone in the drawing room."

Sybil giggled too and stepped away. "Do you suppose this is more difficult for you or me?"

Tom furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, I have no experience with, um, well . . .  _the marriage bed_."

Tom chuckled. "Neither do I."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Oh, I know you've not been married, but you know what I  _mean_."

Tom laughed again. "I do—that is to say I know what you mean, but at the risk of sounding like I'm patronizing you, I'm not sure I'm any more prepared for . . .  _it_  than you are."

"Why do you say that?" Sybil asked, genuinely curious.

"The young man who I was when I fell into Madeleine Stuart's bed thought he knew a great deal about women and the world. Turns out he was a right fool."

"And now?" Sybil said quietly, watching as his expression grew contemplative, serious.

"Now," he said with a sigh, taking her hands and looking into her eyes. "The thought of being with you . . . few things in my life have scared me more."

"Why?"

Tom looked at Sybil with a glint in his eyes that caused her heart to race once again. He leaned in, so he could whisper in her ear, "Because knowing you love me  _thrills_ me more than anything ever has."

Sybil closed her eyes and felt him step away again. She bit her lip to try to contain her smile. When she opened her eyes again, his eyes were still trained on her.

"You're right," she said. "We probably should go join everyone in the drawing room."

Tom smiled and offered his arm. Sybil took it and the two stepped out of the library and into the main hall. Just before they entered, Tom lowered his arm, but Sybil held tight to it. Tom looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. "No more hiding, remember?"

In the drawing room, the mood was surprisingly chipper, given the upheaval that Cora's pregnancy has thrust the whole family into. Only Cora and Isobel, who were seated nearest to the door and not in so deep in conversation as everyone else in the room, noticed how close Tom and Sybil were when they walked in. Isobel immediately turned back to Cora to try to discern her reaction, but Cora only smiled serenely. Isobel wondered whether it was an extension of a happy mood resulting from her pregnancy or approval, but either way, she took it as a good sign. Tom and Sybil went over to Edith, who was alone on the sofa, as Mary and Violet spoke quietly at the chaise lounge at the end of the room. as she sat down next to Edith, while Tom remained standing, Sybil turned to try to catch Mary's eyes to see if she needed rescuing from their grandmother, but had no luck.

A few minutes later, Robert, Matthew and Anthony, who had also been invited, came in from the dining room. The party chartered quietly the rest of the night until it was time for the guests to depart and the family to go on to bed. It would have been difficult for a stranger to imagine that anything was amiss or to guess how much would change in the next few months.

Sybil, perhaps the happiest of them all, was last to bed. After changing into her nightclothes, in her cheery restlessness, she ventured to Mary's room.

"Are you happy to be sleeping in your own bed?" Sybil asked as she came in, happy to have found her sister awake. She laid down in the bed next to Mary.

"Very much," Mary said with a sigh. "And I'm far too tired for a heart-to-heart, darling, so please don't try to ask me about the baby or Matthew."

Sybil laughed. "Well, you don't have to respond, but I will say that I'm glad you two were not ill-at-ease around each other tonight. You may not want to think about it, but I'll not lose hope."

Mary looked up at the ceiling. "I'm not really sure what to hope for anymore. Happiness is a vague and misleading notion, I've come to find. And anyway, any time in my life when I've articulated what I wanted, even if only to myself, the thing is taken away."

Mary turned toward Sybil again with a sad smile.

"Do you mean to tell me that before you knew of mama's pregnancy, you'd made up your mind about Matthew?"

"I had an answer for him, yes, but what does that matter now?"

Sybil reached for Mary's hand and squeezed it. "Your feelings will always matter, darling." Then, she moved to go.

When she was at the door, just before she opened it, Mary sat up, realizing—to her own surprise—that she needed to say it aloud. She needed someone to know, to witness what she had wanted for her life, even if that was no longer possible.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Sybil turned back to look at Mary. "What we're you going to tell him?"

Tears clouded Mary's eyes and she took a deep breath. "I was going to say yes."


	54. The Declaration

“I want to marry Sybil.”

“Sybil?”

Tom could see there was surprise in Robert’s face—shock, rather. He’d expected that. And some anger, even. But there was something else. Confusion? 

“Yes,” Tom said quietly. Starting to feel nervous under Robert’s stare. “Since our families became acquainted, she and I have become close . . .friends. Perhaps you’ve noticed we have similar interests—” 

“So that’s what this is about?” 

Tom was taken aback by the interruption. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re here to ask if you can marry Sybil?

No, it wasn’t confusion, Tom realized now—or perhaps there had been confusion in Robert’s tone a second ago. Now it was something else. It was skepticism.

“Does it surprise you that much?” 

Robert realized that he was in the middle of a different conversation from the one he thought he’d walked into, and it threw him rather of kilter. 

Had that not been the case, perhaps things might have unfolded differently.

* * *

**_One day earlier_ **

Crossing the main hall on her way to the drawing room from the library not too long after breakfast, Edith saw Dr. Clarkson coming down the stairway. She stopped short, surprised to see him in the house so early in the morning. 

“Good afternoon, Lady Edith,”the doctor said, tipping his hat but not slowing down on his way out the door. 

Edith watched him go and didn’t proceed to her own destination until he was out of her sight.

When she made it to the drawing room, she found her sisters, Sybil with a book on her lap and Mary standing by the window. Inscrutable expressions on them both. 

Edith had expected and hoped that on the family’s return from London, the happy news of her engagement would launch the house into a celebratory mood that would last until her wedding day, a few months hence, marking her final days of residency at Downton as the best of her time there. She could be forgiven for believing that it was ever thus in her life: The moment she secured a modicum of happiness, something else would come along to upend it. Contrary to her own beliefs, however, Lady Edith Crawley was not born under an unlucky star. It would not prove to be true over the course of her _entire_ life that her happiness always brought with it something to temper her joy.

But it was true in this case.

The announcement of her mother’s pregnancy and the subsequent revelation that Matthew had proposed to Mary and then taken back that proposal in light of the pregnancy had thrown everything and everyone into disarray. Tomorrow was to be the day that Edith and Anthony would be feted in earnest for the first time since their engagement was announced, and it seemed that no one in the house save Edith herself was in any mood for celebrating. 

“Was that Dr. Clarkson I heard coming down the stairs?” Mary asked, not looking at Edith as Edith came in and sat across from Sybil.

“Yes,” Edith replied. After a beat, she asked, “Is it normal that he’s been back twice this week? Mama and papa said that there was nothing amiss, despite her age, but . . . I suppose I can’t help but worry.”

Mary sighed. “I don’t know. She barely left her bed yesterday, but it’s only tiredness, according to papa.”

“That’s normal, isn’t it?” Edith asked.

“It is, but the stress of everything is likely taking its toll,” Sybil said. “Papa suggested last night whether we shouldn’t postpone the garden party.”

“I don’t know what’s stopping him,” Mary said. “I say just cancel the thing and be done with it.”

Edith felt her cheeks grow red. She didn’t know whether Mary was goading her intentionally, but alas, she took the bait. “I suppose _you_ would. No surprise.”

“Pardon me?” Mary said.

“Something in this house is actually about me, for once, and you’d just as soon make like it wasn’t happening.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Everything is about you, Edith, including, apparently, my concern over our mother’s health. Let’s do make sure nothing happens to mama or the child but only as long as it doesn’t interfere with your schedule.” 

Edith snorted. “Oh, please, don’t pretend you’re worried about anything except what will happen to you now that Matthew has thrown you over. Ever since—“

“ENOUGH!”

Sybil’s sudden outburst surprised both Edith and Mary, but before either could form words, Sybil stood up. “For heaven’s sake why must it always be like this with the two of you! Why do you have to turn _everything_ into a fight?! Why, Edith, must you insist that Mary’s current attitude be only jealousy of you? Surely, you know what it’s like to be disappointed. And you, Mary, why can’t you just let Edith be happy? Yes, things are complicated at the moment and we’re all worried about mama, but there’s nothing wrong with her being happy. You have both always been so concerned with how selfish the other is that you’re both barely able to care about anyone else! You know what my world revolves around? You two! For my entire life, I’ve had to arbitrate your ridiculous, meaningless rivalry. Do you know what? I’m done. I’m trying to do something with my life, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to study!”

Now full of remorse over what had obviously been brazen selfishness on her part, Edith tried to run after Sybil, but Mary’s stopped her.

“Let her go.”

Edith turned back to Mary. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want her to go off like that. Shouldn’t we go see what’s wrong?”

“She’s worried,” Mary said quietly, sitting down on the sofa, in the spot Sybil had just vacated. “About mama. About Tom too.”

“Tom?”

“You know they meant to tell papa when we got back from London that they want to be married.”

“Meant? Are they not going to now?”

“They haven’t changed their minds, obviously, but I think Sybil wanted to do it at the party, and with everything with mama . . . She’s afraid it won’t end well.”

“She doesn’t want to give mama another reason to worry,” Edith finished.

“You know Sybil. ”

“But does it have to be a worry?”

“Can you predict how papa will respond? Especially now when so many things are up in the air?”

Edith shook her head. “Poor darling. It hadn’t even occurred to me that she’d be worried about such a thing.” Edith looked over at Mary only to see her roll her eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that. I only meant that she and Tom are so clearly in love, it hadn’t occurred to me that they’d meet with any real obstacles. Surely, papa will come around, even if he objects at first. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what I think,” Mary said after a pause. 

“But Tom’s part of the family, in away. He’s Matthew’s brother.”

“But what happens if Matthew is no longer heir? What place would Tom have with us? It’s not so clear cut, you see. Nothing is anymore.”

“At least not until the child is born.”

Mary sighed. “The child.”

—-

“It’s ironic, don’t you think, O’Brien?”

The lady’s maid fluffed Cora’s pillow behind her, as Cora shifted back into a reclining position on her bed after Dr. Clarkson’s examination of her. “Pardon me, milady?”

“So much time spent these past few weeks—these past few _years_ , really—worrying about what’s to become of my daughters and I turn out to be the architect of their unhappiness.”

O’Brien stood back up and saw that Cora’s eyes were full of unspilled tears. O’Brien had been with the Crawleys slightly more than ten years, which was quite a long time, but still not long enough to have seen Cora with child before. She wondered whether her previous pregnancies had made her this emotional. O’Brien knew that Cora, like any American, could be rather maudlin. But this was on another plane altogether. 

Still, O’Brien was curious as to where all this introspection had taken Cora. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, milady.”

“Oh, don’t you see! My darling Mary was going to be mistress of this house, and now she’s not because of me and this baby. Edith, poor dear, is meant to be the center of attention during her engagement and all this family is focused on is this pregnancy. And, Sybil. Oh, Sybil!” 

Cora looked up, locking eyes with O’Brien, which seemed to have stopped her rambling, as if she were about to make some sort of revelation and decided to hold back at the last minute. O’Brien couldn’t help but wonder about what Cora could possibly say about Sybil that was a secret to O’Brien. It made her instantly curious. 

“What about Lady Sybil,” O’Brien prodded.

“Never mind. The point is I can’t help but blame myself for how upset everyone seems lately. And I’m doing this poor child a disservice, too, by holding so pessimistic a frame of mind when I should be joyous.”

“We all must deal with life’s lumps as we come, even children.”

Cora sighed. “Especially children.”

“Would you like me to draw you a bath, milady?”

“No, the dowager countess said she would visit this morning. Best not make her wait.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on Cora’s bedroom door. O’Brien walked over to open it and saw Alfred on the other side.

“The dowager countess,” he said, stepping aside for Violet to step forward.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Violet said, walking all the way into the room. “O’Brien, some tea please.”

The lady’s maid saw that as her cue to leave, and she followed her nephew down the servant stairs. 

“So, what did Dr. Clarkson say?” Violet asked as she sat down on the armchair in the corner of the room, near the head of the bed.

“He is still suggesting bed rest, but has relented on tomorrow. I’m to stay in a chair in the tent.” 

“Good. No sense in putting it off.”

“Poor Edith,” Cora said. “I feel like I’ve ruined her moment.”

“Well, it’s just the engagement party, not the wedding. But what of Robert? Did he go see Murray or didn’t he?”

“He did, and it’s all settled, at least for now. Murray will write the title of Downton Place over to Matthew as soon as he can find time to make the trip from London. The current tenants can stay as long as Matthew likes, and will be asked to resign the lease with Matthew’s name.”

“But isn’t this all too hurried and premature,” Violet said, a look of concern over her face. “What if it’s not a boy? There can’t be any guarantees.”

“Robert is settled on the matter and won’t budge, I’m afraid. He feels he owes it to Matthew to give him something meaningful to honor his investment in Downton, and I don’t disagree.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Violet said. “Still, it seems rather odd to me that they didn’t wait.”

“If it’s a boy, he’ll have it as compensation, and if it’s not, then it’s his to do as he pleases, anyway. It’s his doing we’re not living there any more.”

“It’s _Tom’s_ doing. He came up with the scheme that allowed for you to return before the farms were up and running again, and able to pay for the maintenance of this house.”

“Matthew’s fortune paid for the move _and_ the modernization of the farms. I grant that Tom has helped but he wouldn’t have done so were Matthew not the heir.” Cora paused. “You’re not saying we have to pay him something too, are you? I don’t know that we could afford that, and the Tom I know wouldn’t ask for anything.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Violet replied. “But I don’t want his contribution to get lost.”

Cora smiled. “You’re quite the champion for Mr. Tom Branson.”

Violet pursed her lips. “He’s the only person in this family with any sense, and you know that as well as I do. And anyway, it will be Isobel who will point out that he should be given compensation. Robert should be prepared for that.” 

“What’s left to give him, if Matthew takes Downton Place? I don’t know what money there is to offer. Remember that Mary still has to be married, and even if Edith may not need a dowry, it would be wrong to send her off to Sir Anthony with nothing.”

“Can Matthew be entreated to make his offer to Mary again? Even if he’s not the heir and not what we’d hoped for her, it seems long past time that she settled.”

“Settle for no house and no title?” 

“I’m sorry to seem so callous, but honestly, beggars can’t be choosers. Or is there a line of of dukes waiting for her that you’re not telling me about?” Violet sighed. “Not breaking the entail hurt her chances. There’s no denying that now. With Downton Place she’d have a respectable position and continued connection to the family so that the title of countess may yet be hers. What more can she ask from any offer at this point?” 

“I don’t know that Mary can be expected to take Matthew under these circumstances.” 

“She should. If she accepts him now, he’ll be assured it wasn’t about Downton and the title. And surely, he’ll fall for her in earnest.”

“Why, Violet. You really are a romantic underneath it all.”

Violet looked taken aback, which caused Cora to laugh.

“I’ve been called many things, but never that.”

“And if the baby is a boy or a better offer comes along?”

“Then Mary can change her mind. Heaven knows she does it daily.”

“I don’t know that she would want to. Believe it or not, I think she really loves him, more than even he realizes. The problem is Matthew. He’s too honorable a person to let her make her commitment without know what she’s accepting.”

“What a predicament,” Violet said, tapping her cane against the floor. “Doesn’t he know I have no patience for honorable people?”

Cora laughed again, and as she did so, there was another gentle knock at the door. It was O’Brien again with the tea service Violet had requested. The two women remained quiet as O’Brien served them. It wasn’t the sort of thing she normally did, but she had volunteered to bring it up to her ladyship’s room because she knew doing so would pay dividends. 

Having stood outside listening before she came in, she had procured several good pieces of information and it wouldn’t be long before she put them to good use.

—-

Sybil hadn’t meant to blow up at her sisters, but as the date of the garden party neared she was growing more nervous as to what would happen when she and Tom finally told her mother and father that they wanted to be married. Since the day Tom had officially proposed, the day of her ball, and now only a matter of a few weeks had gone by, but much had happened so far as the affairs of her family were concerned.

And nothing bigger than her mother’s ill-timed pregnancy, setting up the potential disinheritance of Matthew, which in turn had flipped Mary’s world upside down once again. Only the happy news of Edith’s engagement had tempered all that upheaval. The news had come, however, at the expense of Mary’s pride. And Sybil could tell that Edith was sore about the fact her own mother was stealing a bit of her thunder. She empathized with both Mary and Edith, but they were continually taking their muted frustrations out on each other, leaving Sybil to arbitrate their squabbles as always. The same part of her that empathized with her sisters for not being given the attention they sought also wanted them to acknowledge the challenges Sybil herself was facing as her future—both professional and romantic—loomed ahead. 

It was at times like these that she missed Imogen and Gwen, either of whom would happily lend her a friendly ear for her to unburden herself. But as Sybil looked out the window from her room, after leaving her sisters agape in the library, she realized the person she most wanted to see in that moment was Tom. She knew that he was at the partnership now and that she would see him at dinner, but the wait seemed too long just then. So, determined, she dressed to go out and called the motor for a drive to Ripon. 

Once there, outside the partnership’s offices, she insisted to Pratt that he drive back home as she’d made other arrangements for her return despite his assurances that he didn’t mind waiting. Once he was gone and out of sight, Sybil entered the office and asked at the reception if she could see Mr. Tom Branson. 

The young woman stood from her desk and walked down the hall. Looking over the typewriter on the desk, Sybil smiled and thought of Gwen. Another moment later, the secretary was back and escorting Sybil down the corridor, where Tom was waiting, standing just outside of his office with a bright but surprised smile.

Once Sybil was inside and the door closed, Tom took both of her hands in his. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Sybil said, walking into the circle of his arms. Just as he’d put his arms around her, she stepped back again suddenly. “Will someone come in and see me here, do you think?”

Tom smiled. “Not with the door closed—though I can lock it if it would make you feel better. The secretaries are a discreet lot. It’s part and parcel of the work. And anyway, what happened to there’s no more hiding for you and me?”

Sybil smiled and leaned into his embrace again. “Everyone’s a bit on edge at home. I had to get away. Mary and Edith are driving me absolutely mad.”

They pulled away from their hug and Tom led Sybil to the two chairs in front of his desk. Sybil sat down and Tom moved the second so that they were directly facing one another. Sybil smiled as he took her hands again. “It would be fair to say that my nerves are getting the better of me.”

“You mean about tomorrow.”

Sybil nodded. “Are _you_ nervous?’

“Of course.”

Sybil frowned. “You hardly seem nervous.”

“Well, not now that you’re here,” he said grinning, “and it’s just the two of us.” He lifted up her hand and bent down to kiss it. “I do suppose I’m hiding it well. I know I tend to wear my feelings on my sleeve, but when it comes to certain things, well . . . I am good at internalizing if I have to. It’s a lesson learned from mam. Don’t let the enemy know you’re scared, if you can help it. Not that I think of your father as the enemy. It’s just an expression.”

“Sometimes, I think _I_ see him that way.”

Tom chuckled and looked down for a moment. “Speaking of that . . .”

“What?”

“I wonder if it’s not better if I speak to him alone tomorrow. I know we talked about approaching him together but—“

Sybil rolled her eyes and pulled her hands away from his, crossing her arms in a pout. “You think I’ll pick a fight.”

“I think _he_ will pick a fight, and I’ll be less easily baited into stepping into one if I’m alone.”

“Two men having a conversation about the future of a woman who isn’t in the room with them? If that’s not a sign of our times, I don’t know what is.”

Tom rubbed his face in his hands. “You’re absolutely right. It’s ridiculous. I guess I really am nervous.” 

Sybil leaned forward and took his hands again. “No, it’s not a bad idea. I have been known to be quite defensive in the face of my father. And to be honest, I’m having second thoughts about our plan too. Not about telling him. It’s just that if feels as if there’s so much up in the air about everything. If this pregnancy hadn’t thrown a wrench into Matthew and Mary and we weren’t all worried about mama’s health, it would be one thing.”

“Do you want to wait until the baby is born?” Tom asked quietly.

“Do you?”

Tom shook his head.

“Then let’s don’t.”

“I suppose circumstances could always be better,” he said. “But then again, they could always be worse.”

“I will soften the ground in the morning, after breakfast . . . gage his mood. And then we’ll talk to him.”

“Together.”

“Together.” 

They stood up and held each other for a long moment. After pulling away, Sybil looked around for the first time. “I can’t believe I’ve never actually seen where you work.”

Tom laughed. “There really isn’t much to see.”

Indeed, the room was sparsely decorated. Two walls were covered wall-to-wall with books. Sybil walked over to inspect them.

“Common law and legal precedent are long and boring subjects, and take up a lot of space.”

She laughed. “It feels very . . . _you_.”

Tom laughed too. “If it really were mine and mine alone, I’m afraid it would be rather messier.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve no doubt your personal effects are not particularly tidy at Crawley House, but I know how seriously you take your work. I bet there is not one dossier out of place here.”

Tom smiled bashfully. “Know me so well do you?”

“I think I do,” Sybil said proudly. “In any case, I know myself, and I think the same would hold true for me.”

“That doesn’t bode well for our future household.”

Sybil laughed. “I suppose not.”

They looked at one another for a long moment. Sybil sighed and looked around one more time. “I best leave you to it.”

“I never want you to leave, but if you must. Do you feel better, at least?”

Sybil stepped forward and gave him a small gentle kiss on the lips. “You always make me feel better.”

——-

Later that day, as several of the servants were taking their luncheon, O’Brien was back below stairs. Cora had decided to stay in bed to conserve her energy for the garden party the next day, so O’Brien found herself in the servants hall with little to do, waiting for Alfred to appear.

He finally did, having come in from outside. He quickly walked to the livery room to change again, and O’Brien followed him there.

“Where have you been?”

Not having noticed her behind him, Alfred turned quickly in his spot in front of the wardrobe. “The village. Mrs. Patmore sent me to buy her spices again. She knows I like doing it.”

O’Brien’s hard expression didn’t change. “Did you go see _her_?”

Alfred turned toward the wardrobe again and began sorting through the clothes to find his livery. “No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Of course, I’m not!”

“Very well. See that you stick to your work and not tend to any distractions. This is a delicate time for the family, and you would do well to stand out as an exemplary footman.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t need to know everything, but if. . . certain things happen—“

“You mean if Mr. Matthew’s no longer heir?”

“Sacrifices may have to be made.”

The tenor of her voice was always rather stern, but she sounded more serious than usual to Alfred, who felt taken aback by her questioning. “Sacrifices? By whom?”

“Never mind,” O’Brien said. “But if you don’t want to find yourself looking for a job any time soon, mind your duties and do them well, and stop thinking about that fool girl.”

Alfred stiffened. “If you want me to mind my duties, I need to get dressed!”

O’Brien looked her nephew up and down. Alfred had her sister’s red hair and forgiving demeanor. He was well liked in the house. She knew that. Certainly, he didn’t try Carson or Mrs. Hughes’s patience the way she knew Thomas often did. Still, nobody could top Thomas for self-preservation. She’d told Thomas that if a new heir was born, the family might have to leave again, or at least pare down the staff. But from what she’d overheard between their ladyships was true—that his lordship was keep on compensating Matthew regardless of the outcome of the pregnancy and that Mr. Branson would need to be compensated as well—a shrunken staff might be the outcome regardless. Alfred was a good boy, but he wasn’t ruthless, and sometimes that’s what service required.

“Right then,” she said to him, and walked back out. 

Closing the door behind her, she spied two of the housemaids hovering around Mrs. Hughes’s sitting room. They straightened up as soon as they saw O’Brien. She smirked at their postures. 

“Get on with it, girls!” Mrs. Hughes said, appearing behind them. 

“Mrs. Hughes, is it true that—“

“I said get on with it!” Mrs. Hughes cut in with a sharp look. The maids scurried away, leaving Mrs. Hughes alone in the hall with O’Brien. Mrs. Hughes expression didn’t soften when she turned toward O’Brien and said, “Whatever goes on upstairs is none of your business Miss O’Brien and you’d do well to remember that spreading rumors is no way to serve your employer.”

O’Brien rolled her eyes once Mrs. Hughes had turned away. Coming back into the servants hall, she now saw Thomas and Pratt finishing their meals at opposite ends of the table, Thomas cursorily looking over an old newspaper and Pratt with the usual blank expression O’Brien saw on him.

“Shouldn’t you be in your cottage?” she said to him.

Pratt frowned, annoyed, and turned himself so he was facing the opposite direction.

“What was all that about?” Thomas asked O’Brien.

She turned to look at him. “There’s worry that a new heir will require paying off not one, but two.” 

“Pay to compensate Mr. Branson?” Thomas replied, skeptical. “He didn’t give the family any money.”

“He’s after _something_. What else could it be?”

“Hmm.”

O’Brien and Thomas shot surprised looks at Pratt, who was looking back at them.

He smiled. “Pardon me,” he said, and coughed several times to dissimulate that his reaction had been about anything they’d said. “Bit of a cold coming on.”

“In July?” Thomas deadpanned.

Pratt stood and picked up his teacup and plate. “Good afternoon to you both.”

Behind them, one of the bells started ringing, and O’Brien rolled her eyes when she saw that it was Cora’s. 

“What are you waiting for Miss O’Brien?” Mrs. Hughes said, materializing behind her once again. “And for heaven’s sake stop with the gossip. We have enough to worry about down here without you stirring everyone up.”

Without bothering to respond, O’Brien headed up the stairs. 

“And don’t you have duties to attend to, Thomas?” 

Thomas stood up and picked up his own plate and cup and took them to the kitchen. Knowing he still had a few minutes before he had to go upstairs to pick up after the family’s luncheon, he stepped outside to have a cigarette.

He had just lit it when he saw Pratt across the yard, just stepping inside the garage. Thomas glanced at the window quickly and without real thought to what he might say followed the chauffeur. 

Pratt seemed surprised to see Thomas when the latter stepped into the garage, only a few seconds after he did. “Can I help you, Thomas?”

Thomas looked at the older man. It wouldn’t do to ask him directly. “I suppose I’m too old to learn this trade, aren’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say anyone is too old,” Pratt said, turning to Thomas.

The surprised look on Pratt’s face told Thomas he had taken the right approach. “How is Joseph taking to his apprenticeship?” 

“Well, enough. You’re not ten years older than he is. Are you really interested?”

“No, not exactly. I don’t really see much of a future in footmen’s work. Certainly not the future my parents saw in it.”

Pratt walked over to the motor closest to Thomas and regarded it. “It changes every year, this job. Just like the machines. Not quite as routine as indoor service.”

“Well, the family may not need so many of us in the future.”

Pratt looked at Thomas and walked back to his bench. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Thomas. I don’t like gossip.”

“I only meant . . . well, everyone is saying there may be war. I don’t gossip about the family. Miss O’Brien never knows what she’s talking about anyway. You likely know more about them than anyone, I reckon, being in the car with them all day . . .listening to their conversations.”

“That’s another thing you’d have to learn to do if you want the life of a chauffeur, Thomas. Learn not to listen—even when you can’t help but hear. There’s more I wish I hadn’t heard than the opposite.” Pratt chuckled to himself. “I’d erase Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil from my mind, if I could."

“Pardon?”

Pratt looked up again, realizing what he’d said he’d said aloud. “What?”

Thomas recognized his embarrassed expression immediately. “Did you say something?”

“Pratt exhaled loudly in relief. “No—that is, Miss O’Brien’s silly stories are not worth listening to. I doubt very much Mr. Branson has interest in ruining the family.”

Thomas smiled. “As regards Miss O’Brien, I quite agree.”

“I should probably get to work, and so should you, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded, and as he headed back across the yard to the servants hall and thought about what Pratt said, it occurred to him that while he may not have seen or heard as much as Pratt, Thomas had seen and heard enough of Tom Branson to agree that he wasn’t interested in money. O’Brien—usually rather clever, Thomas thought—had let her prejudice against working class people muddle her. And knowing Lady Sybil as Thomas did, her liberalism, her constant chaffing under her parents’ rules, her ability to lie easily, it was very clear now that there must be some attachment between them and it was _that_ and not his desire for money for services rendered that would bring turmoil to the family. 

For surely, Thomas thought, not even the Crawleys would accept their daughter marrying a nobody, even one they liked so well as Tom Branson.

Thomas started to laugh—until he saw O’Brien just outside the door.

“What were you doing in the garage?”

“Shouldn’t you be tending to her ladyship?”

“What were you doing in the garage?” O’Brien repeated.

“What’s it to you?”

O’Brien seemed taken aback. “What did that old fool have to say?”

“That chauffeuring is a lucrative trade, and perhaps I should go into it if you’re so convinced a footman is going to be dispensed with here.”

O’Brien tried to read his face. He knew something she didn’t, and he was trying to determine whether it served him to let her know. In truth, Thomas was remembering, once again, that he’d told himself he’d not exploit Lady Sybil, if he could help it. He cared not one whit about Mr. Branson, but Lady Sybil had been loyal and kind to him and he’d not betray her, of all people. Whatever it was that O’Brien thought she knew may or may not be true, but what Thomas knew had a greater chance of upsetting things among the family. He’d not let O’Brien use Lady Sybil in that way.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything I don’t.”

Thomas smirked and moved to walk around her, when O’Brien grabbed his arm. “I’d watch yourself if you don’t want to end up out of a job.”

Thomas considered what could be known about himself. Losing his job was the least of his worries. “Then you best let me get to it.” Yanking his arm out of her grasp, he pushed the door open and went inside. He hadn’t realized it, but at some point she’d drawn a line in the sand. Just now, he’d refused to cross it.

——

Thomas’ exchange with O’Brien, on the heels of what he’d learned from Pratt, reminded him that he’d intended to look into other opportunities so he could jump ship quickly if the situation called for it. Having stirred the hornet’s nest that was the ire of Sarah O’Brien, Thomas knew that he needed to get on this task and soon. 

Later that same afternoon, not too long after the encounter, he snuck away to the village to get several letters of inquiry to friends. On his way out, he saw Dr. Clarkson across the road and walked over to him. It was done on impulse, but one that had been in the back of his mind for some time.

“Hello, Dr. Clarkson,” he said, when he’d caught up to the man, who didn’t look to be in a particular hurry.

“Hello, Thomas.”

“I’m sorry to come up to you like this.”

“No need to be sorry. Can I help you with something?”

“I was wondering, sir. I’ve been thinking for a while now, as it happens. Well . . . I get the feeling that a war's on the way.”

“I'm afraid we all do.”

“And when it comes, I want to be really useful to my country.”

“How heartening,” the doctor said, seeming genuinely impressed.

“So . . . so I've been thinking, what could be more useful than what you do? Bringing people back to health, back to life.”

Dr. Clarkson nodded. “I see. Well, we are looking for volunteers to train for the Territorial Force hospitals, if that's what you mean.”

“It's exactly what I mean.”

Dr. Clarkson narrowed his eyes slightly. “Will you not be missed at Downton Abbey?”

“Maybe,” Thomas replied. “But we'll all be going, won't we? The younger men anyway.”

“As you wish. I'll make inquiries.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor.”

Dr. Clarkson smiled and went on his way. Thomas watched him go for a minute or so before turning again toward the end of the lane and the road back to the house. 

As he walked, he noticed the public transport pass by him and stop about twenty yards ahead of him. Several riders stepped off, including, to Thomas’ surprise, Lady Sybil. Watching her jump off, then smile and thank the driver, Thomas was surprised at the lack of incongruence he found in the moment. He’d have expected her to seem out of place, out of her element, but she wasn’t. Had it been Lady Mary or Lady Edith—well, neither of them would _ever_ ride public transport. But this kind of thing seemed rather natural with Lady Sybil. There was no ostentation or grandiloquence about her, but neither was her ease among people below her patronizing either. If anything, she seemed more comfortable among such people than her own set.

Mr. Branson’s charms were rather lost on Thomas (though Thomas wouldn’t deny he was a terribly handsome fellow), but he could easily see how Mr. Branson’s station and his own ease among all sorts of people would make him a creature of interest to Lady Sybil. 

After the trolley bus has moved on, Lady Sybil headed in the same direction Thomas was headed. The two would have continued walking alone, separated by a few yards, had she not heard someone behind her and looked back. Seeing him, she smiled and waited for him to catch up. 

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Milady.”

“Enjoying an afternoon to yourself?”

“Unfortunately not, I just managed to get away to post some letters before it’s time to ready the library for tea.”

“Well, if you must hurry back, I won’t keep you, but if you’d like to take your time, I’ll tell Mr. Carson that I insisted you accompany me home.”

Thomas smiled and made no move to go ahead.

They walked in silence for most of the way back, but as Thomas saw that they were approaching the gates of the house, he ventured a question. “If you don’t mind my asking, milady, what made you decide you wanted to join the medical profession?” 

“You mean what made me want to work?

“Not exactly. I think most people who know you understand that you were never going to be one for an idle life.” Sybil smiled, flattered at this, and Thomas continued. “I just wonder why medicine.”

Sybil thought for a long moment. “I suppose I fell into it. There was Cousin Isobel’s influence, to be sure, and the fact that I wanted to volunteer at the hospital as a way to feel useful. I found it interesting and don’t particularly have an inclination toward anything else that women do for work, such as teaching. I do think it suits me. I wouldn’t have continued to pursue it otherwise. Why do you ask?”

“I was speaking with Dr. Clarkson just now about the possibility of joining the Army medical corps.”

“Really? You mean you intend to leave the house?”

“If war comes, I may not have a choice, and I’d like to have some say in what I do for the Army, if I can help it. There’s usually only one place they send working class lads like myself, and that’s the front.”

“It’s very good of you to have a plan. I hope it does keep you out of harm’s way. I wish there was some way I could help.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“Perhaps there will be a way in the future. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you, milady."

With a nod and a slight bow, Thomas ducked behind Sybil and headed toward the path around the back of the house as Sybil continued toward the front. She was glad to have Thomas as a friend and wondered if in some future, as a doctor, she really could help him and perhaps offer something more that mere survival.

—— 

Dinner proceeded as normal, and even though Cora had excused herself again, everyone was in good, if somewhat subdued, spirits. With Anthony having joined the family for dinner, both Tom and Matthew excused themselves when the women passed through and headed to the billiard room.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Tom said, as he set up their game.

Matthew, who’d been lost in thought, looked up at the sound of Tom’s voice.

“A lot on my mind, I suppose,” Matthew replied.

His smile and easy manner as he spoke belied all that weighed on him, but Tom could tell Matthew wasn’t fully himself.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Tom asked.

Matthew sat down on one of the arm chairs in the room and thought for several minutes. Tom sat down in the chair next to him and assumed Matthew had nothing to say, but Matthew did and when he finally spoke he did so quietly.  

“Do you remember when I first proposed to Lavinia and she said no?”

Tom smiled slightly at the memory. “She only said no because she thought you were proposing because of her father. She wanted to marry you, and eventually saw the light.”

“I know. I know everyone thought Mr. Swire’s death was the reason I did. . . it would be fair to say he prompted me, but I wanted to do it. I wanted to marry her. I was surer of that than I’d ever been of anything at the time.”

“Why is it on your mind?”

“I loved Lavinia—that’s no exaggeration.”

“But?”

“I didn’t love her like I love Mary. As complicated as everything between Mary and me is, and as trying as being her friend can be, I do love her. I’m inclined to think that the feeling will not be easily suppressed or supplanted. Yet, even as I say these words, as sure as I am of the feeling, I am unsure as to what to do about it. I knew marrying Lavinia was right and what she wanted as well, despite her initial concerns about my reasons. With Mary, it feels like I’m leaping into an abyss without knowing what awaits me at the bottom.”

“Well, that’s easy, brother,” Tom said with a chuckle. “Elation or heartbreak.”

Matthew laughed in spite of himself. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you of all people about my uncertainty. You’re a lovesick fool with no complications with which to contend.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _no_ complications.”

“Sybil would run away with you this very night if you asked her,” Matthew said. 

“Is that what you want from Mary?”

Matthew let out a long breath. “No. When I suggested we get married, I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, to be honest. I was overcome and on paper it is rather a sensible idea—at least it was when it was certain I was the heir. I expected her to say yes. I _wanted_ her to, but she didn’t.”

“Mary is deliberate about all things. Does it surprise you that she should be about her heart as well?”

“I wasn’t asking her for her heart, just her hand.”

“Were you really?”

Matthew’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Tom stood and walked over to their table to start their game. “Perhaps she recognized that it wasn’t just about her hand and thought to give herself time to consider what you were really asking.”

“She still didn’t say yes,” Matthew said, also standing.

“I have not known Mary longer than you have, but I do know that she has no trouble saying no. And she didn’t say that either. ‘Not now’ is not the same answer as no. Lavinia said no first too, or didn’t you just say so?”

Matthew leaned over the table to take his shot after Tom had taken his.

_Perhaps Tom is right_ , Matthew thought. _Perhaps it is all just a matter of time_. 

Then he thought again of Lavinia, who had taught him that time had never been his friend.

“Englishmen don’t like to speak of love,” Tom said. “And knowing that, it’s fair to say that’s not what she wants from you, but you were at least sure that you didn’t want her to make a decision on her future without knowing what yours would be. Perhaps you should consider that your feelings are, well, information she also ought to have.”

Matthew smiled as Tom leaned over the table again. He was thankful for Tom’s counsel, even if his advice was not always something he could act on.

They played silently for several minutes when Sybil came into the room. “There you are!”

“Have we been down here that long?” Tom asked walking over to her.

“No, I suppose not, but still . . . I was waiting for you.”

Matthew felt himself smiling again. His heart may have been a muddle, but he would never begrudge the open affection between his brother and his beloved Sybil.

“I shall excuse myself then,” he said, and with a nod to Sybil, headed back toward the drawing room. 

Matthew made his way to the main hall and saw Mary coming out of the drawing room. 

“Going to bed already?” Matthew asked.

“No, I was just going to check on mama.”

Matthew smiled. “Well, I won’t keep you then.”

Mary regarded him for a moment. It looked as if he had something to say. “I don’t have to do it now.”

“No, it’s all right.”

After a moment’s pause, Mary turned to go up the stairs, but watching her go Matthew suddenly felt the need to stay in her company.

“Actually, Mary.”

She stopped at the landing. “Yes?”

“Can we . . . do you mind stepping into the library with me for a moment.”

Mary came back down the stairs and led them into the library.

Matthew gestured for Mary to sit down on the sofa and sat down next to her. 

“I’m not sure how much your father may have told you, but he and I have to come something of an agreement since you returned from London.”

“What kind of an agreement?”

“Regarding my investment in Downton.” Matthew paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “When I chose to move here . . .” He paused to chuckle. “I wasn’t sure what I was getting into, to be honest.” 

“I suppose it’s fair to say the same was true for us—who could have known what we would get with _you_.”

Matthew looked at Mary who was looking at him from the side of her eyes—a sparkle in them that suggested he was teasing him. He was glad for it. There seemed, at least in this moment, no lingering tension over the almost engagement that had transpired between them. 

“There was nothing in the situation that suggested I _had_ to move here. I’d have been heir here or in Manchester just as easily. I supposed there would have been more consistent contact between Robert and myself, but if I’d insisted on staying, there was nothing he could have done—or I think would have done—to stop me. I decided to come because—“  

“Because of the investment.” 

“Well, yes. But more to the point, for the change the investment represented.”

Mary’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m going to tell you more, perhaps, than you are interested in knowing about my past, but I think I must if you really do want to understand.”

Mary nodded. 

“I wasn’t particularly happy in Manchester when your father’s letter arrived. Lavinia had been dead just going on a year. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to make of my life after the future I was expecting to unfold could not come to pass. In Manchester, I was sitting on a pile of money that I didn’t feel was mine surrounded by reminders of not just Lavinia, but her father and my father. That life belonged to a person I no longer was, but I didn’t know who I would be instead. Your father offered me a life boat.”

“And now it’s about to be taken away again,” Mary said quietly, still feeling the injustice the possibility of a new heir represented for Matthew.

“I wouldn’t say that. My future may well be different from I had come to expect since I became the heir, but whatever happens, I’m not in the rut that, at the time, I thought I’d be stuck in forever.”

“What are you saying?”

“The rescue was not being heir. It was meeting all of you. And no matter what happens, I’ll be grateful for it.”

Mary smiled. She felt her chest tighten but kept the tears she felt would form from doing so. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it for a moment.

“We’re all grateful for you Matthew. Even me.”

Matthew smiled widely. It was another new beginning for them. In the past two years, it felt like they had already had many. When she took her hand back, he looked away again.

“I lay all that out because I don’t want you to think that you owe me something after what I’m about to say.”

Mary’s heart jumped into her throat. “And what’s that?”

“Robert has signed over ownership of Downton Place to me. It’ll be mine after the child is born, regardless of the sex.”

“I see.”

“And I’d like to give it to you.”

Mary stood abruptly. “To me?”

Matthew stood also. “Hear me out—“

“I don’t understand!”

“I told you a year ago that you would never have to leave Downton on my account, and I’d like to keep that promise, even if the Downton I can offer is not this particular house.”

“Is this another proposal?”

Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat. “N-no. I just want you to be protected. The house will be yours to do what you will.”

Mary couldn’t understand what this meant and was rendered speechless.

When she said nothing, Matthew continued, “And that’s up to you.”

“But I have no income. If I wanted to live in it myself, I’d have to marry a man with a fortune to spend and nothing on which to spend it.” Saying it out loud, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Matthew, I haven’t been capable of trapping any man my entire life, let alone one who wants to give me all his money.”

“Well, now you have something to offer that you didn’t have before. I may well lose this house when your sibling is born, but the truth is I don’t need it. I never needed it. You had to lose it as well when Patrick died and you had a greater claim on it than I did. It was unfair that you got nothing when I became heir. That’s a fact that’s still true. That’s why I want to keep my promise. Our forebears may well roll over in their graves, but I’d like to right their wrong in overlooking you as a worthy heir. At least as much as I am able to now.”

Mary was at a loss for words, and Matthew had little else to say to he headed for the door. When he got there, before taking his leave, he said, “And honestly, Mary, I don’t think there’s a man out there who could resist you. If you’ve not managed to ‘trap’ one as you say, it’s because you really haven’t been trying. Perhaps you haven’t said as much to yourself, but to this point at least, I believe you haven’t _wanted_ to get married.”

As the words tumbled out of Matthew’s mouth, before he really even knew what he was as saying, he realized that all this was true. And that this was the reason she hadn’t said yes to him on the spot in Hyde Park when he’d suggested she marry him. 

Looking into her eyes, into _her_ , he added, “If and when you make up your mind to do it, the man you want will be ready and waiting.” 

As he walked out, Matthew completed the thought in his head: _If only that man could have been me._

 ———

“What are you doing up?”

Robert walked into his bedroom, having changed into his nightclothes, expecting his wife to be deep asleep. Cora had dozed off, but always a light sleeper, she heard him in the dressing room and sat herself up slightly to wait for him to come in. 

“I wanted to hear about dinner. How was everyone?”

“Not much to report,” Robert said climbing in bed next to her. “The usual. What about you? Are you feeling up to it for tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m ready to get out of this bed, in any case.”

“Good.”

“How was Matthew? You’ve settled everything with him regarding Downton Place, right? Did he seem more at ease?”

“I suppose so, but then his manner is always at ease. He didn’t look all that different than usual.”

“Such a good soul. I wish this could all end favorably for all of us.”

“Does that mean you hope it’s a girl?” 

Cora sighed. “Honestly, I want a healthy child. I don’t let myself think much beyond that.”

“That’s probably wise.”

Cora saw that Robert was about to turn out his lamp, and said, “Did you talk to your mother at all?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

Cora knew that if Violet had broached the topic of compensation for Tom, Robert would have a great deal to say about. It would seem from his current attitude that Violet had, once again, left the dirty work for Cora. “Well, she came this morning while you were gone, and . . . made a suggestion.”

A sense of dread came over Robert. “What kind of suggestion?"

“The suggestion that perhaps Matthew’s is not alone is deserving compensation for trouble that might no longer be in Matthew’s favor if I give birth to a boy.” 

Robert sat up immediately. “Tom?!”

“I’m not saying that it has to be done.”

“Certainly not! What has he given to this house except his disdain at the way we live in it.”

“Now Robert you know that’s ridiculous. Tom has made a significant contribution to our return to this house and to the current running of it.”

“And he expects to be paid for this contribution?”

“I don’t know what he expects!” Cora said, exasperated. “Your mother was the one who brought it up. I don’t really know what to make of the idea. I’m just sharing it with you.”

“Does mama want there to be anything left for the heir, if you do give birth to one?”

“Robert—“

“The very idea that I have to give away more of my heir’s birthright to Tom of all people is absurd. I can’t believe I’m being asked to consider this.”

“Look, I’m not saying I agree with your mother, but we have come to depend on Tom for a great many things. He’s hired staff, he’s reviewed your books, he’s basically taught Mason how to do his job, and he designed the scheme by which the farms now keep this house and our lives in it afloat. I love Matthew like a son, and he is bright and honorable and wants to do right by all of us, but you cannot deny that Tom is the cleverer one and the brains behind the operation. He did all of that—not agreeing with what any of it stands for—for _Matthew_. Violet . . . whatever she may say about it, she loves Tom very much.”

“Well, she can give him the dower house if she’s so adamant,” Robert said, laying down again, turning away from Cora so petulantly she couldn’t help but smile. After he’d pulled the blankets over himself, he turned toward her again and said, “This is what comes from taking their advice and giving them the run of the place. Is he going to show up tomorrow asking for something?” 

“Darling, don’t be ridiculous! You don’t have to do anything about this. Your mother raised the point with me and then left it to me to raise it with you, probably because she knew it would upset you. Do with the consideration whatever you are inclined to do. I, for one, don’t expect him to ask for anything, so don’t go out tomorrow looking for a fight.”

Robert lay back down and feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

Cora couldn’t see his face and worried that she’d stirred more trouble than was worth by mentioning Violet’s idea—one that she know could see that she should have dismissed as an absurdity from the beginning.

“Robert?”

After a moment, he simply said, “Good night,” and closed his eyes.

Cora wouldn’t ever know exactly how she’d set into motion the events of the next day, but as she lay there sleepless she thought about having made Robert angry and about the fact that when he was angry, he tended to take it out on the wrong people. 

——

By the time Isobel, Matthew and Tom had made it to Downton Abbey for the garden party the next day, the event was in full swing. Like she had the year before, Claire had gone ahead early to help Mrs. Patmore. Moseley and Ivy had also joined the staff for the day to help. Although attendance had not quite doubled compared with last year, there were quite a few more guests thanks to Anthony’s friends and family having made a good showing. 

He and Edith, along with Robert and Cora—seated comfortably but dressed for the occasion—were in the main tent greeting new arrivals, and that was where Isobel, Matthew and Tom went first. 

Tom had been quite beside himself all morning, a fact Claire had remarked upon when she saw him before leaving Crawley House that morning. Tom didn’t tell anyone at Crawley House what his intentions were for the day. Matthew knew Tom and Sybil would tell the family after her presentation, which was as much as Sybil had told her sisters. But Tom hadn’t wanted to put Matthew in the middle of the likely conflict that would arise.  

If Matthew wondered if something was eating at Tom on their way to the event, they didn’t let in. Once there, in spite of everything, seeing Edith so happy somehow eased his nerves. Tom knew from Sybil and his own observations that Edith had something of a pessimistic outlook on her own life, and he was happy to see her so happy. Robert also appeared to be in good spirits—and certainly he was in a better mood now than he had been went he’d gone to bed the night before—so much so that Tom hoped that perhaps all of his and Sybil’s worrying would be for not. 

Soon after greeting the family and offering Anthony and Edith his best wishes, he left Matthew and Isobel and went in search of Sybil. 

It didn’t take long to find her and Imogen talking together a bit away from the rest of the crowd. Imogen saw him first and in her usual manner, she grinned in delight in seeing him and took Sybil’s arm so that they could walk to meet him halfway.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Wilkes,” Tom said, lifting his hat. He looked over at Sybil who smiled sweetly, and Tom instantly recognized the weight of their task that she carried on her shoulders and a measure of nerves in her as well, much more well hidden than his. He thought then, for perhaps the millionth time since they’d acknowledged their love for one another, that he couldn’t possibly love her more. 

Looking back at Imogen, he said, “Yours was as happy and eventful a season as I’ve heard from Sybil, I trust?”

“Indeed, it was, thank you,” she replied. “I’m delighted to see you again, but I was very sorry not to have your company among my other friends. But of course I thoroughly understand that not everyone can drop everything and spend all June at the races and going from ball to ball when there's important work to be done. It's a wonder that anyone does it at all when it takes time away from the causes they contend they support. I am so glad that Sybil and I we were able to parlay one into the other. Has Sybil told you everything about our luncheon? I do think it was quite a success if I say so myself. I can still scarcely believe we pulled it off, but it was done. And now most of the parties are done as well. Not that I dislike parties and certainly today's is a happy occasion for dear Lady Edith.” 

"Yes, indeed," Tom said when Imogen finally came to a stop. "And I have heard about the luncheon from both Sybil as well as Aunt Isobel—that is, Mrs. Isobel Crawley. She was quite glad to have attended and reported that it came off very well."

"I am so glad to hear." Imogen was about to say something else when she turned her head slightly and saw her mother gesture to her from across the lawn. "Oh dear, what can mama want?" Turning back to her friends she said, "I best go see her, but I hope we can converse more later, Mr. Branson." 

After she left the couple behind, Tom and Sybil didn't turn to face each other but discreetly joined hands as they stood shoulder to shoulder looking over the crowd.

"What do you say we make a run for it?" Tom asked.

Sybil laughed. "Don't even joke about that! I'll be tempted to take you up on it!"

Tom gave her hand a squeeze before letting go again. "So what's his mood?"

Sybil sighed. "Generally happy and untroubled but ready to commit to self-righteous anger if the need calls for it. So an average day for papa."

Tom couldn't help but smile. "I was talking with Matthew last night, not about us but something else. It was when you came in as we were playing billiards, actually. I was reminded in the conversation that a ‘no’ today doesn't necessarily mean a ‘no’ forever."

"That's true."

"It's what I'm clinging to."

"Just remember that his answer only determines how and when, not if. That's what _I'm_ clinging to."

Tom’s smile grew wider. “That’s better. Perhaps that’s why you seem less nervous than I do.”

“It’s sweet that you are.”

“How is your mother? She seemed in good spirits as well.”

“I don’t know if it was being in bed all week, but her energy is up. So much so that she asked Dr. Clarkson when he arrived if he thought it would be all right if she could stand.”

“He said no, I take it?”

“Papa did.”

“Probably best to be safe,” Tom said.

Sybil nodded, then perked up as she saw Imogen walking back toward them.

“Darlings, I’m so forgetful,” she said as she approached them. “Mama was trying to get my attention to remind me.”

“Of what?” Sybil asked. 

“Father has something for you, Mr. Branson.”

Tom stiffened. “He what?”

“Mr. Branson, my father said he has something to give you. He asked before we arrived that if I saw you that I point you in his direction. In the excitement of being here and seeing you, I plain forgot. I’m so terribly sorry! He’s just over there.”

Tom looked over to where Imogen was pointing, and Sir John was speaking to someone Tom didn’t recognize. Looking back at Sybil, he saw alarm on her face. She knew that Tom had spoken to Sir John about his search for his long lost brother. That was the only possible thing Sir John could want to speak to Tom about. 

“Perhaps it’s good news,” Sybil said, taking Tom’s hand in both of his. 

“Only one way to find out,” he said, almost to himself as he headed in Sir John’s direction. 

“Would papa have bad news to impart to Mr. Branson?” Imogen asked as she and Sybil watched Tom walk away.

“It’s possible. It seems as if he hasn’t told you why he needed to talk to Tom,” Sybil said, trying to determine if Imogen could guess what Tom was going to learn from her father.

“No, he never shares anything about his business with me. That is what this is about, isn’t it? Business?”

Sybil shook her head. “It’s not exactly my information to share, but I will say that Tom is looking for someone back in Ireland—in Cork, specifically. And he asked your father for help. It would seem that something, if not someone, has turned up.”

“Well, I sincerely hope he’s able to find what he’s looking for.”

“You and me both,” Sybil said. Looking at her friend again, she added, “You know you haven’t told me what’s happened with Mr. Bellasis.”

Sybil smiled as a telling blush came over Imogen’s face. 

“I wish he were here to tell you himself, but he finally got what he’s been waiting for. he’s been assigned a post at the British Embassy in Paris. Father says that given the state of things on the continent and the possibility of war, it’s quite important work. Although, alas, those were the same reasons father gave me when he said I could not visit Mr. Bellasis.”

Sybil’s eyes widened. “Did he ask you to visit?”

“No, that was my own whim. He did say he would write. We’ve become very good friends, I would say but not more. He did say he was fond of me, and I believe him but he has a career to think about. I’m satisfied that this is not the last of it, but I do wish I were more certain about when we’ll see one another again.”

“Paris is not so far away,” Sybil said. “Even if you can’t go there, I imagine he’ll come back with some frequency.”

Imogen fidgeted with her hands a bit. “That’s just the thing—I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. Mother has expressed a desire to go back to New York, which is no surprise. We never meant to come back permanently. So you see, darling, if he really does want to see me again, it will not be without some effort.”

Sybil took Imogen’s hand. “Well, that just means that if you do see him again, you’ll know that his intentions are true.”

Imogen smiled, grateful for her friend’s encouragement. 

“I will miss you dearly, though,” Sybil said. “I feel like I couldn’t have gotten through this year without you.”

“The same, surely, is true for me, but let’s not talk about what our separation may be like, darling, because thankfully we are not there yet.”

Sybil stepped forward and hugged Imogen tightly. In that moment, the two friends didn’t know what was to come, but each knew she could count on the other. And in the turmoil that would unfolding in the months and years that followed, that never ceased to be true. 

——-

It took only a few minutes for Tom to find Sir John Wilkes. Seeing Tom approach, Sir John excused himself from the conversation he’d been in and walked toward Tom. 

“Mr. Branson.”

“Hello, Sir John,” Tom said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking the way he felt he was. “I hope you are well. Miss Wilkes said you wanted to speak to me.”

“I do,” Sir John replied. He looked around a moment. “Why don’t we walk back toward the house for a bit of privacy.”

Tom followed the man, trying to calm himself as much as he could in the process. They were almost back to the front door and quite away from the gathering when Sir John finally stopped and faced Tom again. 

Reaching into his pocket, he said, “I have a letter back from my man in Cork. I had asked him to look for your Mr. Harrington after you came to see me in London.”

“Did he find Ciaran?” 

“He did . . .well, he believes he’s picked up the trail, in a matter of speaking. It’s a bit complicated. Why don’t you see for yourself.” Sir John put the letter into Tom’s hands. “It’s addressed to me, but it is yours. I’ll leave you to the reading of it. I expect we’ll stay in touch, and I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Branson.” 

“Thank you,” Tom said, barely remembering to look up from the letter in his hands before the man walked away. After taking it out of the enveloped, Tom felt his heart start to race as he skimmed its contents. The words leapt from the page disorienting him with their revelations, but when he got to the end, he got a hold of himself enough to run after Sir John again.

The latter turned, hearing Tom coming up behind him again. “Sir John! Sir John!”

“Yes?”

“I have to tell—that is. . . I . . . what he’s saying here. Can it be true?”

“Mr. Keely is a man of his word and does his work well. I trust that what’s in that letter is true as far as he has been able to find.”

Tom took a deep breath. “You told me when we met in London that if I wanted a job in Cork—”

“Just say the word,” Sir John replied.

“I’d like to take it. I’ll have to make some arrangements—there are actually a fair number of things I’d have to see to but if you can employ me there . . .”

“Write back to Mr. Keely when you are ready. He’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, sincerely, wondering if he might burst into tears right then. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you what this means.”

Sir John smiled. “I hope the best for you, Mr. Branson. Do stay in touch.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Sir John turned to walk again again, and Tom ran back toward the house with the intention of finding his mother in the servants hall to tell her the news. 

Once inside, he was crossing the main hall when he almost ran straight into Robert.

Tom stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re in quite a hurry,” Robert said. 

“Um, yes.” Tom looked down the hall to the doorway that led to the back stairs. He was too preoccupied with wanting to get to his mother that he didn’t see how Robert was looking at him, as if he was trying to read something into Tom’s visible anxiousness. 

“Am I keeping you from something?” 

Tom shook his head. “Pardon me?”

Robert narrowed his eyes slightly. “Let’s speak in the library for a moment.”

Robert began walking in that direction before Tom could answer. He wanted to insist that he had something else to see to, but didn’t want to annoy Robert today.

“I’m told you have something to speak to me about,” Robert said before the two had sat down.

_What?_ The words took Tom by surprise. 

“Well?”

Tom shook his head to try to get his bearings. Too many emotions and thoughts were filling him for him to think straight. “I do.”

“Right then, say your piece.”

“I-I should go fetch Sybil. We want to do this—talk to you about this—together.”

Robert’s brow furrowed with recognizable annoyance, which also served to annoy Tom. They had a plan. How had Robert gotten ahead of them like this?

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Robert said. “This is between you and me.”

“I beg your pardon Robert, but Sybil is very much a part of this.”

“Look, I’m not sure what you’re playing at, and I don’t understand how, after so much time suggesting you want to be a part of this family that it turns out you’re a mercenary in disguise.”

“What?!”

“I know Cora’s state has everyone on edge, and I understand Matthew has something to lose but you—

“Robert, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s been brought to my attention that you are seeking compensation for your help to the estate in the event Matthew is not the heir.”

“That’s ridiculous! When have I ever suggested I needed or wanted any such thing from you?”

Robert was taken aback by Tom’s response. “You mean you don’t?”

“No. What’s been invested is Matthew’s entirely, and you’ve settled that to his satisfaction, which satisfies me. Any help I gave was freely given to my friend and family.” Tom paused and cleared his throat trying to push down the emotion welling up inside him. “Is that really how little you think of me?”

Robert said nothing for a moment, but Tom remained rooted to his spot without thinking that perhaps leaving in that moment would have been best.

Finally, Robert spoke again. “Then what is it that you have to say? I said there was something we had to discuss and you agreed. If not this then what?”

Sybil came into Tom’s mind, and her words to him minutes ago washed over Tom. 

_Just remember that his answer only determines how and when, not if. That's what_ I'm _clinging to_.

A leap into the abyss. 

“I want to marry Sybil.”

“Sybil?”

Tom could see there was surprise in Robert’s face—shock, rather. He’d expected that. And some anger, even. But there was something else. Confusion? 

“Yes,” Tom said quietly. Starting to feel nervous under Robert’s stare. “Since our families became acquainted, she and I have become close . . .friends. Perhaps you’ve noticed we have similar interests—” 

“So that’s what this is about?” 

Tom was taken aback by the interruption. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re here to ask if you can marry Sybil?

No, it wasn’t confusion, Tom realized now—or perhaps there had been confusion in Robert’s tone a second ago. Now it was something else. It was skepticism.

“Does it surprise you that much?” 

Robert realized that he was in the middle of a different conversation from the one he thought he’d walked into, and it threw him rather of kilter. 

Had that not been the case, perhaps things might have unfolded differently.

“This isn’t how we meant for it to go. We wanted to ask—well, _tell_ you together. But here we are so . . .” Tom took a deep breath. “I’m in love with Sybil. I have been almost since the moment I met her. I know that I’m not the type of person you might have expected her to marry, but she wants to marry me, and I know that we will make each other happy because we already do. I have none of the things I’m supposed to have, but I have the things _I_ want, which are my independence and freedom to be my own man, and together we will provide happiness for one another, which is all we want. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Robert said nothing, and the silence hung in the air like a thick fog. 

“Robert?”

“Your lordship?”

Robert and Tom both turned to see Carson at the door.

“I have a telegram here.”

Robert rubbed his forehead.

Carson took this as a sign to come in. He put the tray holding the message up to Robert. “I believe it’s a matter of urgency, milord.”

Robert picked it up and closed his eyes in dismay upon reading it. 

Tom read Robert’s response for the only thing it could be. “It’s the war, isn’t it? It’s finally come.”

Robert nodded. “Let’s go tell them.”

The three somber men stepped back out into the bright July sun and contemplated the scene before them in its final moment before it would all change.

Robert took off his hat and gestured for the quartet to stop playing. The abrupt silence brought everyone to a standstill.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Can I ask for silence?”

Behind Robert, Carson took a step toward the catering tent to ensure the servants stopped their work and came out to listen.

“I very much regret to announce...that we are at war with Germany.”


	55. Letters, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next jump the two years between where we left off and when series two begins through letters. The first one is the one Tom received from Sir John at the fated garden party. The letters will explain some of what happens in the interim but not everything.

 

**August 1914**

Tom looked around his empty room at Crawley House one more time, wondering if and when it would be his again in the future—a future that held everything and promised nothing.

His eyes landed on the small desk and a memory made itself known. He set down his two suitcases and walked over to it. Opening the top drawer, Tom smiled at the sight of the envelope, in the exact position in which he'd left it that hot day he'd written the letter.

The first time he'd kissed Sybil.

As he picked up the envelope and closed the drawer, there was a light knock on the door. Tom turned to see Moseley coming in.

"I thought I'd come help with the cases."

"Thank you, Moseley," Tom said with a smile. "But I can manage them, if you can manage something else for me."

"And what's that, sir?"

Tom looked down at the letter then handed it over. "Will you see that this gets delivered?"

Moseley's brow furrowed as he saw who it was addressed to. "Sir?"

"Just see that she gets it. By post or personal delivery. Whatever suits you."

Moseley smiled. "Of course, sir." He paused for a moment, then added, "It's been an honor serving you, Mr. Branson. I hope I can do so again soon, if that's what you want."

"I'm not quite sure what I want Moseley," Tom said, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

Tom tipped his hat at Moseley and leaned over to pick up his cases before heading out. Moseley stood in the empty room only for another moment before following Tom and closing the door behind him.

* * *

**July 10, 1914**

Sir John,

I am writing to inform you that, per your instruction, I searched our employment logs for the last five years for one Ciaran Harrington. Both Ciaran and Harrington are rather common names, though orthography and penmanship seem not to have been the strong suit of our current records keeper, I'm sorry to have discovered. I have reassigned her and have already begun the process to find a replacement more capable in the areas necessary for this work.

With regard to the search, this meant that if variant spellings are included, there were five men. Two are still working with us this summer and were easily eliminated as the ones the young man, Mr. Branson, is searching for. I made inquiries with the foremen who were likely to have worked with the remaining three and found that one was much older. Another was a local lad who has gone to America but whose parents remain here in town.

The last only worked for us last summer. His foreman didn't have much to report except to say that he was a decent worker. I couldn't find any local record of him before that, but I was able to track down the boarding house where he lived. The mistress said he hadn't been there but two years and recently joined the Army. He left behind some personal effects that she believes he will return for, but no certain word on when that might be. I'm afraid she wouldn't relinquish his things to allow me to determine his identity with certainty, but she said she'd be willing to do so for next of kin.

It is as promising a lead as Mr. Tom Branson is going to find, I believe. If he can convince the woman to let him see what has been left behind, he may find confirmation one way or the other. I will be happy to aid him if he does choose to travel, and I would advise him doing so as soon as possible. If it is true that his Mr. Ciaran Harrington joined the Army, the longer he is in, the deeper he will get in the bureaucracy of it and the harder he will be to find, especially if there's war, as so many seem to believe. The easiest course, if it is determined, that this is the man he is looking for, may just be to remain here indefinitely and wait for his return.

I've kept a file on the findings I've summarized above and await your further instruction on this matter.

Respectfully,

Mr. James Keely

* * *

**July 24, 1914**

Esteemed Miss Crawley,

I hope this letter finds you well. My reasons for writing are two-fold. The first is to thank you for the note you sent. I am glad to know you enjoyed the tour and the lecture. As I have said now on both occasions we met, we really could not be more grateful for the help and support you and Miss Wilkes have given us. I had hoped that we would remain in contact and so am happy to begin our correspondence.

My second reason for writing is to let you know that if you remain interested in joining the medical field, the time is now to act. The recent declaration of war has lit a fire under all of us here at the Royal Free. The Army's Medical Corps has already been in contact with regard to the doctors and nurses who will be supporting the legions sent to the continent. New courses for volunteer auxiliary nurses will begin in two weeks in the hope that we will have enough women prepared for the theaters in France as well as here at home. I don't know if you have given much more thought to my suggestion, when we met last, that you take some training as a nurse as you prepare for the school entrance exam and your eventual training to become a doctor. This would provide a perfect opportunity to do as much for yourself as for your king and country.

If you are interested and able to write me back within the week, I will save you a place. I believe the experience will serve you well and offer a look at the medical profession you will not get from books. If this is truly what you want from life, there will be no doubt once you've had a taste of it.

I hope to hear from you soon, but I imagine there are other pressures on you I am not aware of, so if you choose to delay you won't damage my impression of you or your prospects here. I am intrigued by the idea of a woman such as yourself choosing such a path in life and feel compelled to offer my encouragement. My parentage is not so high as yours, but my choices were rather odd to my parents, who believed I had it in me to marry above our respectable station. I did just that—though to their disappointment I am married to my work! Early on I had many doubts and would have liked to have had someone tell me that I had chosen the right way forward. I hope that I can do that for you now.

Regardless of what you choose, I look forward to the day when we see "Doctor" along side "Lady" as a title women are invited to aspire to.

Sincerely,

Dr. Augusta Wentworth

* * *

**August 30, 1914**

Dearest Mam,

I have found him! I have found my brother! I have not yet reached him, but I am on the trail and so close to him that I know meeting him will happen someday as you and I both hoped and prayed for. I have much to update you on, but I'll start with this, the most important piece of news.

First, our hunch about him coming to Cork was right, and I'm so glad I asked Sir John Wilkes for help. His right-hand man here, Mr. Keely, has been so helpful I can't imagine ever being able to repay him. After traveling here from Dublin with Paddy, whom I convinced to move here with me—more on that later—I reached out to Mrs. Herron, the woman who ran the boarding house where Mr. Keely believed Ciaran had been staying.

It belonged to her parents, and she has made a living off of it for more than twenty years so she's come to be a quick study of the people she boards. She said Ciaran came with little and said even less, beyond expressing his necessities. He found a job straight away, having come at the peak of hiring season on the docks. She added, however, that it didn't seem to her that the job was his purpose here.

"He seemed like a young man—not troubled, perhaps—but in search for answers." Those were her words.

She said he left only once, for about a week, but he did not say where he'd gone off to either before he left or after he returned. I must wonder whether it was related to his family in Belfast. I still plan on going there and finding them as soon as I am settled and have exhausted all avenues of inquiry about him here in Cork.

Of his departure to enlist, very shortly after he returned, Mrs. Herron said it seemed rather final to her but it was the fact that he told her of his plans and what he left behind that makes her believe he will return. Having seen for myself—and, of course, there is so much wishful thinking—I tend to agree with her. Something of a busybody, she took it upon herself to look through Ciaran's things. She admitted as much to me, though she said it was only because she needed to use the room and was left no clear instruction as to what to do with the trunk.

It was full of Da's letters. All of them. And Miss Cunningham's as well. The entirety of his parents correspondence. I've read it all now several times over, Mam, and have cried many tears over them too. They are not so much love letters as the aspirations of two young people who had little in common but a desire to change their lives. I see so much of myself in his ambition for himself, his future family, for the world and for Ireland. I am indebted to my brother for having kept them, and to all the circumstances that guided me to them. Short of Da still being with us, this is the closest I have ever felt to him.

But all this and I've not explained how precisely she agreed to give them to me. As Mr. Keely said in his letter to Sir John, Mrs. Herron is conscientious enough that she resolved to share the letters—they being of such a personal nature—only with Ciaran's family. When I spoke with her, she said she recognized me immediately! We look like, my brother and I! Enough that she was convinced we were related right off. Once I knew it was the letters that he had left behind, I explained to her where they had come from, who I was and why I was looking for him. Seeing how well I knew what they were, she allowed me to read through them. For this I am grateful, though she insists on remaining their guardian until such time as Ciaran returns. I appreciate this and am glad that my brother earned her loyalty.

Mr. Keely, ever helpful, has already sent an inquiry to His Majesty's Army, and I look forward to following the trail. The war will complicate things of course, but I am determined now to remain here until Ciaran turns up. I had suggested to you coming to Cork when we first traveled to Dublin after receiving Ciaran's letter, and now having had my instincts confirmed, I cannot return to Downton. Not yet. You knew that this was my intent—to search for Ciaran until I located him—when I came here, as did the Crawleys, though I think it may still come as a shock to them. Particularly with everything that happened with Sybil.

My heart aches to be without her, but this is a mission I must see through. I know, too, that her pursuit of medical training is better served without me. It hurts not to know exactly where she is and what she is doing at every moment, but I couldn't be prouder of her, and I feel in my heart that what when we are reunited our plans will finally come to their fruition. Perhaps if fortune favors us, all of this—the war included—will be over before the year ends. That said, however, I cannot imagine that I will be home before the fall.

I am not without things to do. Along with following up on the work Mr. Keely has begun in looking for Ciaran, I have also begun working as Sir John's attorney here. Few things move capital like war, and already there are legal contracts to be drawn with regard to Sir John's shipping company's role in transporting goods in demand as a result of what's happening in Europe. I am being well compensated, and learning of shipping law as it applies here in Ireland and around the ports where Sir John's ships dock throughout the world—all of it is new and challenging.

With Paddy here I'll not be corrupted and forget the plight of the working man. He tells me this every day. The truth is, mam, I'm terribly glad he agreed to come with me. When I arrived in Dublin, I hadn't been planning on inviting him along, but he never found meaningful work again after the lock-out. I could easily see the restlessness in him, so even if Aunt Aoife hadn't pulled me aside and asked if there wasn't some position I could find him in Cork, I might have suggested it myself. The change has done him good. Mr. Keely helped me find him a post, and his work has been well received. He remains passionately political, and we've already attended some local meetings together. Living so far away from my Downton family, his presence here has been quite a salve, I don't mind saying.

Thank you for your news about Aunt Isobel and Matthew. Once you know where he has been posted after officer training school, please be sure to send along his address. Matthew was never much of a letter writer, but for my own peace of mind, if I can write him letters it will feel as if he is not in harm's way.

I love you and miss you dearly, mam, and hope that we shall be together again with Ciaran sooner than even both of us can imagine.

With love, your son, Tom

* * *

**November 1, 1914**

Dearest Imogen,

I was so glad to receive your letter last month and know that you and Lady Priscilla are back safely in New York. I know the voyage is not a particularly treacherous one, but since the tragedy of the Titanic and given the current turmoil brought to us more recently by the war, I can't help but worry over those whom I love and with whom I must part. Your presence here meant so much to me the last year. I am grateful Sir John and Lady Priscilla brought you to come out here and allowed us to be reacquainted. You said returning to New York after so much formative time here in England made you wonder where you really belonged, but I have no doubt you will find useful and important ways to employ yourself there and look forward to hearing about all of it.

I had a chance to see our friend Mr. Bellasis only yesterday. Lord and Lady Merton held a send off for their son Larry Grey here in their London house, as he is set to begin his service in France next week. You may have met him this summer, or perhaps remember him from childhood. He has grown up to be a mostly unpleasant person, but it takes no small amount of mettle to be willing to fight when the option not to remains open, so I'll not begrudge him a measure of respect as least as far as that goes. The mood was rather festive, considering the circumstances. Larry seems convinced that the conflict is more than half over now and will not last another year. Mr. Bellasis is of a different mind, and his opinion seems to stand on firmer, more knowledgeable ground. We spoke of you, of course, and I must report a rather becoming twinkle in his eye when he mentioned you. You may continue to doubt his interest in you, but I cannot. I made him promise to keep me informed as to his whereabouts, for he, already a captain, is also posted on the continent.

Perhaps this is what previous generations have felt in similar moments, but I cannot help but think that it feels as if all our young men are leaving us. My dear Tom, though not gone to war, remains in Ireland in the hope—I truly hope not vain—that his lost brother may be found. It was a cruel trick of fate that pulled our lives in different directions so suddenly, but the search is too important for him not to undertake. And, naturally, he wouldn't hear of me going with him if it meant not taking the opportunity offered to me to come to London to study medicine. I cannot say I regret it, but being without him just when we both believed we'd be together and married has tested my faith quite thoroughly.

The only comfort I can take from his absence is that he is not on a battlefield, though even as I say those words, I understand that Ireland is trudging through a different sort of conflict, no less bloody. I remember thinking when we were apart in June how difficult it was not to see him everyday and how very sure I was that I could not endure a longer separation than those few weeks. It seems like an age ago now, though merely months have passed. I know more of what it means to sacrifice than I did before. Letting Tom go to do what he must so that in the, I hope, not too distant future he may live a fuller life could hardly be called sacrifice when compared with what I've seen here in London.

Upon completion of the training course, absolutely no time was wasted in putting us in the thick of it. The expectation that we manage the work immediately and without complaint was daunting but satisfying as well. And the feeling when I was first addressed as Nurse Crawley! Oh, Imogen, I wish I could bottle it. To have earned that title and to be asked to live up to it daily. Never has so much been expected of me. My own expectations have been confounded as well. It's all more savage and more cruel than I could've imagined, but I feel useful for the first time in my life, and that must be a good thing. I sincerely hope that this war comes to a swift resolution, but just as sincerely must admit that I can never go back to life before it began. It's funny, when I saw Miss Perry that day we went to the debate at Speakers Corner, she said that becoming a doctor was not the only path to arrive where I wanted to go in life, and only now do I understand what she meant. In fact, I must admit I have put off applying for the medical college for another year. Nursing in aid of the war effort feels much too important to leave at the moment.

I'll stop going on and on, but before I sign off I'll not forget to mention that Edith is now married! She and Sir Anthony had a lovely ceremony at Downton a fortnight ago and have gone to Scotland to honeymoon at our cousin's invitation. Not so much pomp as Edith might have hoped for under happier circumstances, but despite the gray cloud of war, it was a happy day and she the happiest bride. Sir Anthony distinguished himself in the Army in years past and has been asked to re-enlist, but he has held back at least for now, in deference to Edith's wishes. I hope the best for them and for you, dear friend.

Yours sincerely, with my best wishes,

SPC

* * *

**November 9, 1914**

TELEGRAM

His Lordship Robert Crawley to Mr. George Murray

The Lady Grantham was delivered of a child on the evening of Sunday, November 8, 1914 at six o'clock and twenty-five minutes.

STOP

The child was female.

STOP

The child is healthy as is the mother.

STOP

Dr. Richard Clarkson affirms Lady Grantham will bear no more children.

STOP

A letter is being sent to Mr. Matthew Crawley to confirm his position as heir apparent.

STOP


End file.
